Wednesday November 12, 2003

topsoil chair

She spent all day in the yard, planting and pruning, digging and watering. She seemed to be in heaven as she stepped out of the house, pulling on her worn grey gloves. It wasn’t just that she smiled as she glided down the steps, but that her eyes joyously glistened in the sun. The trees rustled a welcome and the flowers bent towards the warmth she provided. Today, Nature almost loved her more than she loved the plants beneath her. She respectfully stepped lightly on the grass, almost floating towards the back of the abundant yard.

I watched her from my window, sitting in my seat, my confinement. I couldn’t wander the yard with her any longer; my wheels would trample the flowing grass and rivet her manicured flowerbeds. I dwell inside, she dwells among the daisies. I shift in my chair, adjust my posture, comfort is my only concern these days; the idea of adventure has faded like fabric left in the sun. Her life is boundless in natural adventure through the yard; she brings life to the wonders of the earth. I watched her pick up a trowel, I almost smiled.

Her light spring dress, mottled with pale pink flowers, flapped lightly in the wind as she gracefully sat down before a flowerbed of daises. Daintily she touched the petals, feeling their health, being told their needs. She lightly padded the earth around them; adjusted their stems for better positioning. She reached to her right and picked up an old fashioned watering can, it was silver tin with the shower head spout. Classic, graceful, authentic, that was her way. She smoothly poured water at the daisies roots, and sprinkled water on the expectant petals. Refreshing morning breeze lifted her brown hair off her shoulders, strands waving slightly at the distance. There are other gardens elsewhere, but here she is, watering mine.

As she stood to bless another flowerbed with her water and care, I wheeled myself back away from the window. I pushed forward and down on the wheels, and rolled across the hardwood floors towards our room. The door was as we left it, slightly open, ajar, almost beckoning my own curiosity. I pushed the door open with my outstretched left hand as I rolled into the room and inhaled the stale air. I wheeled myself around the bed and toward desk in the corner, my back facing the door. I began looking over the newspapers and reading about places far away and tragically unimportant to my life, but dramatically more interesting. I heard the backdoor open gently and close slowly as the wind fought hard to keep its soft grasp around her. Her footsteps soothingly echoed through the wood covered halls, she was inside; she was here with me, somewhere. I read on, I wrote notes and ideas, I drew my unshared thoughts. She opened and closed cabinets in the kitchen, I heard her open the back door and go outside again, and the flowers no doubt bloomed again for her.

I didn’t hear the backdoor open and close when she returned, but her faint footsteps could be heard as she softly walked across the floors and down the hall towards our room. I heard the door move slightly and creak as she pushed it open a little further, enough for her to walk through.

“I thought you’d like to come outside with me,” she said while my back was still facing her.

“You know I can’t roll across the grass, dear,” I said as a turned my chair around to face her. I caught her blue-green gaze and saw in her hand a simple glass jar, an old empty jelly jar. But it was no longer empty. In its lidless interior sat a short stemmed daisy, resting solidly in rich topsoil. She smiled as she walked towards me and sat down on the corner of the bed, placing the daisy in the jelly jar on her lap between us.