Digging weeds on this crisp, clear day, I’m trying to gain a
bit on the endless surge of green life that surrounds us here. The horse tails and other ancient relatives
have gained a foothold in the yard this year, no different than any other, I suppose.
This narrow strip of flower bed is only the edge of what used
to be a vegetable garden, years ago when we first moved here, stripped the heavy
sod, hauled in some good soil, and planted what I was used to growing—beans, beets,
carrots, corn , strawberries. But this was not Idaho, so the carrots and beets
remined small, the strawberries went wild, and the corn, barely ripe, was pillaged
by marauding raccoons, which took one or two bites from each yellow ear and
left them scattered across the grass. I worked that garden for many few years, learning
what did and didn’t grow well here and planting accordingly. We ate a much from
its yield.
Digging deeply now, to get to the roots, I unearth a surprise.
What first appeared to be a small branch or extra tough root, is actually a small
toy motorcycle, remnant of a partial childhood that existed here, once. I pick
it up, turn it over in my hand, hold it gently, as if the child who left it was
still here somehow.
You played in those huge mounds of dirt that we had dumped
next to that garden, running your small cars, trucks, and motorcycles over and
over the make-believe roads you formed there, making those revving-up motor
noises that you were so good at. You laughed when I tried to emulate you, but I
never could sound like a hotrod. That delighted you so.
You came to us already born, already burdened by what came
before, things we knew nothing about. There were many days spent in the sun
here, and in the rain. You played often in the tree house that Dad built for
you that first summer, swung on the swing, had friends over and ate the picnic
lunches that I made for you packed in brown paper bags.
I watched you climb the
huge, old, cedar tree until you could barely be seen, wavering between pride in
your fearless accomplishment and guilt for allowing you to risk such a thing.
My own father’s voice echoing in my head: “Be careful!”
On your first day of school, when we walked to the end of the driveway,
I could sense that you were reluctant to meet that big, yellow bus. It turned the
corner and came down the road, stopping by the mailbox. We crossed the road, the
door of the bus opened, and the friendly driver greeted you by name. Bravely
you climbed up the steps and took a seat, waving goodbye. I blinked back tears;
I think you might have been braver than I was that day. A few weeks later, I watched
from the window as you came home from the bus stop, a few houses down the
street, happily stomping through every rain puddle that you could find, in your
brand-new shoes. I could not scold you; you were so very joyful!
There was the Halloween, when we walked through the woods to a
friend’s birthday party. As we walked home, you felt sick and threw up; no Trick
-or-Treating for you. You still wore your monster costume as you moped around
the house. The neighbor kids kindly brought you some of the treats that they had
gleaned, which helped some. But you and I both knew that Halloween only comes once
each year. There is no rewind. Parts of life are like that, too.
There were the birthday parties, with the home-made cakes, always
carefully decorated with whatever your favorite cartoon character or superhero was
at the time. Dad made up scavenger hunts, which got progressively more
difficult each year, as you and your friends grew. We invented all kinds of games
and you always tore the paper off each gift and spent hours playing with them afterwards.
When you got your first bike, the neighborhood expanded for you; you delighted in
riding down the road to play with friends and then bringing them back to play
here. One year, we got your bike equipped so that you could do bike tricks,
something you had been bugging us for. I remember you spending hours and hours practicing
and calling for us to “Come see!” you perform. How proud you were when you ran
through your current “routine” and we gave you hearty applause.
Years passed, and your bike was abandoned, cast aside for
skateboard, boombox, and CDs. There were the friends we did not know, the disagreements
over homework and privileges, the long nights when we did not know where you were.
Those nights became months and, worst of all, we had no idea of what to do. Where is the teenage instruction book, when
it’s desperately needed? Time went on and became years; we are grey now, and have
slowed down.
I clean the toy motorcycle off in the kitchen sink. It is
broken, missing one wheel and a handlebar. The remaining handlebar cannot steer
the missing wheel, but the kick stand does allow the cycle to stand upright with
one wheel. I place it in the sunny windowsill, although I have no idea why. Maybe
the sunlight makes it appear whole again. I know it needs to be thrown, but
some things are difficult to do.
You are a man now, living your life as you’ve chosen to. I am
an old woman, feeling left behind as in
the dust of a motorcycle speeding off to
who-knows-where. I have no answers to the questions that arise as echoes from
the past reverberate in my head. Vroom, vroom…
