A Tribute, Before It’s Forgotten

Arms outstretched, my hands grasped for something familiar; fingers graced their touch towards something memorable... sentimental. For a time where life seemed simple-- uncomplex. A child growing tomatoes with someone who protected him. Flowers in a garden overlooking a forest just beyond the fence-- not to be trespassed, as what laid beyond was something dangerous-- something real. But what was ‘real’ to the child of grand imagination?

Before this forest was a swing set that allowed that child to fly-- to dream beyond the fence. What was it in those woods that would serve to be so dangerous? The view was a mysterious and spiritual spectacle, and just obscured through those trees laid a smoky pond that carefully complimented the nature of it-- a curiosity to the magic of the foreboding, yet inviting waters.

The protector warned the child not to go into the woods. Fearing the danger, the child listened well, but one could not help but wonder what truly resided beyond the fence. Only once did that child take one step past it, only to cower to his grandmother’s words and retreat back to the safety of the brighter haven.

The comforting care for this childhood resided in a bubble-- an escape of reality, where the yellows of marigolds and daffodils in his grandmother’s garden represented the peace of a special world. Here, he could bask safely in her love and the warmth of dreams and brighter futures. But this child’s dreams would fade outside of her home-- to a reality of life he couldn’t yet understand-- the reality of homes that weren't hers, and the reality of divorce.

Once, as the child drowned, his small hands grasped up in awe towards the mirror-like reflection of the water’s surface above him-- the moment stilled, and through the light of his relative's pool, his savior shined through. His grandmother bore no hesitation to dive in for him and save his life. Despite everything, she did her best to shield him from the world, and continued to protect him from the reality of it.

But as that child aged, the warmth of those feelings she brought became a memory long faded, and dulled. What was left swallowed me, the child, in its consumption-- at the moment of my grandmother’s death. The hushed reality that not all dreams come true, that there aren’t always happily ever after's. That fence my grandfather built for her... the fence he never finished...

Beyond that fence was life. Those coyotes my grandmother adored, that would walk across the icy pond in cold winters, were the same creatures she’d warn would cause me harm. The rabbits that nested under her porch were their food. The nuance was not something I could understand so young. The cycle of life was beyond my comprehension.

Her house was sold. Now gray, rehomed and renovated, it no longer resembles that inviting marigold yellow. Her life-- her home. It’s gone.

When the marigolds passed away, it took that innocence with me. The blonde of my grandmother’s hair, like the flowers, could not stay with me forever. I will no longer feel her touch, and though her memory will live with me, mine too is fading. I am aging. Like the marigolds, their beauty-- their life, it’s temporary. We won’t last forever.

But through her love given to me, I begin to remember what she taught me most.

I can replant the flowers I pick. We can regrow again.

I couldn’t save her life, but I will remember that she saved mine.

Perhaps I will cherish what I still have.

Michael Damon Maverick