Consider the Lilies
It seems so long ago that I met him, an endless eternity. Now he is gone and I cannot help but look back over the past, searching for a way to bring him back to me. All the what-ifs and maybes haunt me, dogging my steps, but here, here, they will not come. I do not know what stops them; I certainly do not care, as long as they never breach the solemn sanctity of this place. It has been a long time since I have known peace of mind outside of this twilight world. Whenever it seems that I am drowning in the routine of mundane daily life, this is where I come. Of course, if he was still here, with me, then I would not have to take my refuge in this place, but he is not, and so I must.
Harvest is beginning soon, and autumn is setting in now. When I come to this place, oh! What gentle heaven. The breeze, it whistles through the trees, soft and sad, a quiet but peaceful funeral dirge. Sweet upon the wind is the gentle fragrance of the lilies-of-the-valley that grow wild around this place. Swirling, waltzing around me it gathers the smallest hint of decay, an air of death from under the earth. Soothing, like a kind hand it caresses my cheek. This is where I am closest to him now; this is where he spent his last moments. And some days, if I close my eyes tight and tip my face up to the sun burning a path through the sky, I can almost smell him.
Only in this place I let the memories come to claim me, though when I am elsewhere they ravage the fringes of my mind for some minute crack in my defenses. It is only here, as I sit with my back to the single engraved slab of stone, writing in this small blank book, that I allow myself to relive the past. The memories that come to me in this place are as strong as they were some sixty years ago, unchanged by the workings of time, so unlike me. To me the years have not been kind. Every time I venture a glance in the small looking glass in my room I discover a new wrinkle, or find my hair has lightened yet another shade. The more and more I go on, the more and more I find myself coming to this place, praying for the tide of memories to come in and sweep me away. When it does, I close my eyes, and let it carry me away. I feel myself drift away from this earthly body, float on the currents in the air to a place where the world is right again. It is here that I find my peace again.
It is the soft scent of the lilies that stirs my soul, sends me back to him. These flowers nestled in this ancient grove have seen the happiest and saddest moments of my life; they have born witness to some of my greatest triumphs and follies. They sacrificed themselves to become bouquets, gifts for my beau's mother. They became the soft bed where I first knew a man's touch, Samuel's touch. Here, unmarked except for the blanket of flowers above them, lay two children, dead before they breathed, my sweet angels in heaven. These flowers turned red, their gentle fragrance tainted with the heavy reek of coppery blood, as Samuel breathed his last laying amongst them. Someday soon I will join Samuel by his side once more, under this soil, for the rest of eternity.
So much of my life has been intertwined with this spot. I cannot do other than return to this spot, to these flowers, to this single stone, every chance I have. The stone comforts me, when I lean against it I can pretend I am leaning against his solid chest. If the breeze blows right and the sun shines I can pretend that we have just made love under these trees or that I am playing with our daughters and son in these woods.
But now, while I sit here on this small grave plot, my mind wanders, reconstructs the past. Inside my head grow two long rows of oaks, older than anything I have ever known before, or ever will again. Their branches stretch heavenward, forming a shaded canopy, a haven from the blistering sun. Between the lines of trees winds a road. It is made of loose dirt and gravel, and smashed oyster shells collected at the shore. It is impossible to walk along on this road barefooted, though that never stopped me from trying. The small stones are cool on the calloused skin of my feet, but it is the shell fragments that leave long red scratches, which sometimes dye the ground with a few drops of carelessly spilled blood. In this far-away world the sun, dying in the sky, tints all within its reach with a bloody light; making the world seem to bleed in conjunction with my feet.
Down to the end of the driveway I go, gingerly placing one foot before the other, placing as little weight on them as I can. Eventually the shells and stones give way to soft cool dirt, and it dusts my feet, turning them a sandy brown color. Small clouds form over and over where I place my toes, with every step they dig in the dirt, seeking a refuge from the heat of the day. To the steps of a porch I come. They are recently white-washed, and worn in such a way that the middle appears to dip lower than the sides. There, on the porch, nestled between the pillars that support the overhang of the roof, sits a wicker rocking chair, next to it a table on one side, a basket on the other. The flowers I have gathered go softly onto the tabletop; I spread them so that no bloom gets more exposure than any other. I settle myself into the wicker chair, tired from a long day of household chores, and draw from the basket a few small balls of white thread, and my tatting cushion. This is my pleasure, my skill, my fortune. The lace I make I do not sell, no, each is a work of art to me. I attach them to my dresses, they can make even the oldest dress look new, and I affix them to the cuffs of my husband's shirt-sleeves. The tatting is not simple; indeed it captures most of my attention. The rest I spend waiting anxiously for my Samuel to come home to me.
As I tat, a subtle breeze blows through the porch, sending the ivy leaves that wrap around the porch pillars rustling a soft melody. I pause, stopping to enjoy the caress of the wind. Closing my eyes I inhale the heady fragrance of jasmine and oleander, a bittersweet smell, beauty tainted by death. When the gentle wind dies down I return to my work, content in this world, this life. I make quick work of this piece of lace, always the same pattern in this memory-world, always perfectly done. I stand; stretch my aching back and knees. Softly I pad over to one of the pillars, lean against the strong structure. An ivy leaf or two stroke my cheek and arm. I sigh and squint into the distance, looking for Samuel. And then, suddenly, there his is, making his way down the drive, his face turned to the sky, though he cannot see it for the oaken awning.
Even after seeing him everyday for many years, his beauty never ceases to amaze me. His golden mane shimmers with the suns dying rays. He comes back to earth, leaving his fantasies far away in the sky, and looks down the lane to me. His eyes are blue, clear and cool as a winter's rain. They are much needed refreshment for my own parched earthen toned eyes. The leather breeches he wears fit like a second skin, and the fine linen shirt is loose, the ties undone, exposing his tanned chest for my inspection. At the porch steps he pauses, taunting me, holding himself just out of reach. He smiles at me, and its brilliance is near blinding. I shift, leaning my back against the pillar instead of my arm, then adjust my dress. Still, he makes no move to join me, yet neither do I go to him. We stand there, simply memorizing the other. For a long time it goes on, until darkness falls, dipping the world in blue paint. Then I shuffle forward, throwing myself from the porch, propelling myself into arms that don't exist anymore.
I never get any farther than the wild rush to hold him; every attempt to touch him again is futile. The moment I am a breath from touching him I am jarred back here, back to the present, out of my pleasant revere. I am always torn from him, ripped from happiness back into reality. And yet, it matters very little. In the end, it is I who have triumphed, not time. It is I who have won, the lilies-of-the-valley hold his essence now, trapping him here with me, if not in a corporeal form then in spirit. I remember his smile, and I recall his laugh. His voice haunts my dreams, and he calls out to my heart, even now, even though he is gone. He is with me in the evening breeze, in the gentle caress of the wind, in the soft murmurings of the trees, in the soft scent of the flowers. I have triumphed over time because when I sit here, and consider the lilies, I remember him.