Memories of a Childhood Garden
Three o'clock! I glance from my watch to the papers on my desk, a clutter of unpaid bills, stacks of magazines, articles, and books waiting to be read, a sack of slides to be sorted and filed.
It's time to leave my workday, measured in phone calls, computer screens, appointments, meetings and miles. I have promised myself time with my daughter, Katie, beginning with her red-faced, sweaty, breathless arrival from school at 3:05 each afternoon.
Nine years old, my “baby,” suddenly too heavy to carry in my arms. I've realized her childhood years are speeding by and I want to savor this span while I am still her best friend—the years before she begins to see the flaws less blurred by my special place in her life. I want to play this time on slow speed. The essence of Katie is now.
Bang! In the door she explodes, hollering “Hi, Mom!" as she races to the bathroom. Always too busy to stop, she would rather wet her pants than lose her chance to play quarterback in the neighborhood football game. Katie loves all sports, walks like a prizefighter, can outfight, outclimb, and outrun almost anyone on our street—and her bright blue eyes twinkle as she asks if I will curl her silky, honey-blonde hair for school tomorrow and could she have a new pair of shoes with “just a little high heel?”
Katie and I go to the park to play Frisbee and softball. The gorgeous, sunny, blue-and-green afternoon floats by as Katie teaches me several ways of aiming a Frisbee. Am I the mother or the child? I see myself before my eyes. More precisely, am I my mother or my child? The Frisbee suddenly whirls and arcs in the intended direction—something is right! Thumb curled over the top, index finger straight out along the rim, my other fingers under. Now, forearm back to my chest and I fling straight out in a yellow plastic salute.
“PERfect!” shouts Katie, and I feel great. Mother or child? What is this thread running backwards through generations’ gardens, immeasurable, intangible? We have grown well-tended in some seasons, neglected in others, a weed pushing through here and there competing for space until plucked away. But always, like the brown and golden platters of sunflowers, we have turned our heads in unison to the light.
Now it's softball. Katie bends into a tight curve around the bat, wiggles her bottom, grins, threatens to make me run for miles. The bat connects with a delicious smack—she is delighted, excited, and a little surprised. Everything shows on her face. No carefully guarded business face here, no holding back for a better position, price, or time. She releases my spirit--I run for the ball, jump into the air, shout. I experience the essence of her childhood joy.
I am my mother, my self, and my daughter. # # #