The key to the front door is now in the hands of strangers. They’re probably moving boxes in, thinking about what color to paint the walls, adjusting the couch against the front window just so.
It’s an odd feeling. Mom died last year. Dad 10 months prior. The little yellow house in the woods kept the reality of their passing at bay. Now, it’s real.
There was something about that house that was a lingering reminder of their life. Although I didn’t grow up there — they moved in while I was in college — every trip “home” was to that place. Most of my adult memories of them are under the shake-roofed home.
.
Mom always had mounds of flowers in the backyard, most planted from seed. She embraced the process of seed pressed to soil brought alive by water and sunshine. She watered them every morning, singing hymns and talking to the blooms in a clear voice of encouragement.
I was surprised to see so many of the flowers still alive. A long, hot summer with no one to care for them, yet they found a way to survive. Some, even flourished. The Forget-Me-Nots craned their blooms to the sun and the daisy’s shimmied in the breeze to attract a passing bee. I watered them and they wave back at me in silent thanks. “We’re good.”
I peek in the windows. The wall where all of the family photos hung is now empty, little nail holes the only visible sign of the generations who have gone on before.
They were married 63 years. Not all of them were easy. There were failures, disappointments, and deceptions. And there joys, victories and miracles. They never quit on each other.
As I look in the mirror, I realize that I’m the the senior generation and the heavy responsibility of legacy now falls to me. It’s been that way for everyone who has ever gone before me.
I’m not really not ready. There are still a few more questions to ask. But I can only whisper them in the form of prayers, hoping for wisdom to somehow find me..
When the doubt creeps in, I think about those resilent flowers. Left on their own, they’re still thriving with no to care for them except the rain and sun from above.
Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert
Read all past issues at http://www.patheos.com/blogs/davidrupert