sepia

Brooklynn lounges on the old stone steps, smiling at her collection of acorns and acorn bits. “Mama,” she says, “This one looks like a pear, but this one looks like an ice-cream cone.” She licks her lips as though she can taste the delicious ice-cream it resembles. My neighbor Cheryl, tired from a long afternoon of yard work, looks at my daughter with delight. “Oh, I love this girl.” she dreamily states.

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.