PART 119 — THE FIRST Ordinary Anniversary
On the anniversary of Grandma’s death, I took the day off.
Not because I knew I would be unable to work.
Because I wanted time.
I went to the cemetery in the morning.
The ground was firm.
The stone was clean.
I brought flowers from the shop near the market.
Nothing elaborate.
The florist wrapped them in brown paper.
At the grave, I brushed away a few leaves.
Then I sat on the nearby bench.
I told her about work.
About the rolls.
About Daniel.
About the family invitation I had declined.
“I think you would’ve told me to consider it.”
I looked at the stone.
“And then we might have argued.”
The thought made me smile.
“I wish we could.”
A bird moved across the grass.
Far away, someone shut a car door.
I did not bring the passbook.
It remained at home.
For once, I had come simply because I missed her.
Not to explain the case.
Not to report progress.
Not to ask whether I had done enough.
“I’m having a good life,” I said.
The words sounded large in the open air.
I let them stand.
Then I added:
“I still wish you were in it.”
Both were true.
I stayed awhile.
Then I went home.
PART 120 — WHAT WAS STILL Growing
That afternoon, I worked in the garden.
The peonies were beginning another season.
I cleared leaves from around the shoots.
Checked the supports.
Pulled a few weeds.
June arrived with sandwiches.
This had become a habit.
Sometimes planned.
Sometimes offered with a message asking whether I wanted company.
We sat on the back step.
She watched me eat.
“What?”
I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m remembering.”
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
“You do some things like her.”
“Not everything.”
“What things?”
“The way you tilt your head when a person says something you don’t quite believe.”
I smiled.
“Useful.”
“Very.”
We ate.
After a while, I asked:
“Do you think she’d recognize me?”
June put down her sandwich.
The answer mattered.
She understood that.
“Not all at once.”
“You’ve lived years she didn’t get to see.”
“I think she’d want to learn you.”
My eyes filled.
Not simply recognize.
Learn.
A mother asking who I had become instead of insisting I remain the girl she remembered.
I looked toward the garden.
“I would’ve liked that.”
June nodded.
“I know.”
For a while, we sat quietly.
Then she pointed at a plant near the fence.
“That one needs moving.”
“I thought you said they needed space.”
“It has space.”
“It also has nearly no sunlight.”
I groaned.
She laughed.
We finished lunch.
Then we found the shovel.
The garden was not finished.
Neither was the house.
Neither was I.
There would be changes.
Things that thrived.
Things that needed another place.
Things I would plant and discover I did not like.
For once, that did not feel like failure waiting to happen.
It felt like having somewhere to keep working.
I pressed the soil around the moved plant.
Watered it.
Then I stepped back.
June stood beside me.
The kitchen door was open behind us.
Inside, Mom’s mug waited on the table.
Outside, another season had begun.
PART 4-My grandmother’s savings passbook was deemed useless by my father, who threw it into her grave.
