Late Summer

I’ve been laying here for a while, long enough for the scent of the crushed grass beneath me to surround me in a pillow of fragrance; long enough for the crickets to start their serenade next to my ear and the grasshoppers to jump over the top of me. There are some sunflowers right at the edge of my vision, nodding their cheerful heads into the sky, watching the sun make its leisurely journey down to the horizon; they make me think of that time you brought me a bouquet of sunflowers and daisies, just because. The air is heavy with that indefinable late summer something, not a taste or a smell or a presence, but tangible nonetheless. The important times of my life, of our life together, all seem to wander through this same late summer air.

I met you in late summer, years ago now. You had come to the farm looking for work, and my father hired you. I’ll never forget the way the sun played across your hair as you held your hat in your hands, taking that glass of lemonade from me. You had tiny laugh lines around your eyes, and big hands. I always loved your hands, rough from work, so strong and capable of protecting me from anything, but always gentle.

We married in late summer, a few years after that first meeting. My entire family was there, you had no one but your mother. Your eyes shone as you repeated your vows, and I thought I would shatter from the love I was feeling. You danced with every one of my chattering aunts and cousins without a word of complaint, but your gaze never left me. That night, when we finally consummated our love, those big hands of yours brought me to the edge of reason, again and again. I was sure I’d died and gone to heaven.

Three years from then, almost to the day, we had our son. We named him for you, and it was clear from the beginning that he would have your big hands. He was a joy, bringing so much into our lives, and happy to follow in your footsteps at the farm as he grew. While there were other pregnancies, there were no other children, but we never felt a lack with him around.

Other things, little things, almost forgotten by the years in between, wander through my mind. Tidbits and snippets of our life together flow out, playing like a movie against the cerulean backdrop, all precious to me. I welcome them, greeting them like the old friends they are, inviting them in to spend some time. I never want to forget these memories, these precious charms on time’s bracelet.

You are gone now, having slipped away last winter after a long battle with the cancer. I cried rivers, waterfalls, floods; cried until the physical pain matched what I felt inside. I thought the pain would never leave; I cursed God for taking you and leaving me so alone. I wanted nothing more than to join you, and leave this aching void that was my life behind.

Finally, that hurt faded, leaving behind only the good memories. I feel closer to you now, lying in this field behind our house, than I did even in the last months of your life, imprisoned as you were upon your hospital bed, lost to the world. It is as though the pain burned off all the trivial things, the little irritations and frustrations, forging what remained into something stronger because it survived within me.

The thought of that love we shared keeps me strong, that and the knowledge that you are here with me. As long as I remember you, remember our times together, you live on and I am not alone. I can feel you near me, recalling those times with me, as we gaze up into the layers of clouds.