Cheryl is a lover of nature, much like my little Brooklynn. With
her home nestled amongst acres of Georgia pine trees and wild magnolia, Cheryl feels
as though she is already in Heaven. Wild birds sing from the tree tops,
squirrels skitter across her stony walk probably looking for the very acorns my
daughter is now hoarding in the palms of her hands.
It is peaceful here in Cheryl’s yard. The gradual descent to
her home on the long, meandering driveway with the gentle canopy of leaves overhead,
feels protective. Miniature stone figurines of children and forest animals reflect
a maternal touch, while long-rotten logs and mossy outcroppings suggest a respect
for the natural order of things. Her home is suggestive of a carefree life,
which of course is too simple an assessment to ever be true. Her yard is a
little bit messy, and yet so very
beautiful. In all likelihood, a good metaphor for her life.
From the other side of the yard come the sounds of raucous
laughter and the snapping of sticks and twigs underfoot. “Come here Tristan…,”
taunts my son Blake. My boys are having
a sword fight, their royal blue school shoes crushing leaves and mushrooms
while they chase each other through the underbrush. “No way, you dirty patootie!”
Tristan retorts, barely escaping his brother’s blade. Giggles erupt.
My neighbor sits next to me with her hands on her knees,
serenely watching my three children make themselves at home in her yard. Her
eyes water a bit as she tells me about which trees her son used to climb, or
which path a huge Snapping turtle once took back to the creek after laying a
nest of eggs in her yard. Her husband, John, sweaty and tired from a day on the
tractor, is ready to move from here. Maybe to a piece of land that is smaller
or easier to manage, or possibly closer to family. But Cheryl will hear none of
it. She grins and tells him to be sure to come and visit her.
We continue to perch on her front steps, the hour seeming to
gently dissolve away. A dusty, old photo album now sits on my neighbor’s lap,
filled with pictures of her once-little girl in her ballet leotard. My daughter
is soaking it up: the costumes, hair,
and makeup, even the strong limbs stretched to impossible heights, puts her in
awe of this young lady she has never met. Brooklynn has just begun taking
ballet lessons herself, so when Cheryl insists that we buy her tickets to our first
performance, my daughter spins her head in my direction. A look of pride and excitement flashes across
her face. Then just as quickly she softly resumes her study of her acorns.
Cheryl pauses for a moment, tilting her head toward my boys
deep in her woodlands and then gently on my daughters bent form with quiet
chitter-chatter heard barely above the sounds of the forest. “You will miss
this one day, you know,” she states simply to me. I slowly nod, gazing at my
surroundings. For a brief moment it seems the world is in sepia. 
