The Raspberry Man and his Lady Tomato ...
A beautiful day today. My work schedule is more lax, in preparation for full-time classes this fall. Out on the deck earlier, I stared across the expanse of the backyard. I was sitting there, head cocked to one side, legs outstretched, trying to take a nap in an Adirondack chair.
Next-door, and as far back as I can see, stretches the neighboring property. It is comprised mostly of wild flower gardens, giving way to raspberry bushes and groves of tomatoes.
Art and his wife live next door. He's a gray/white-haired man, old enough to be my grandfather, his soft hair tossed off to the side, worn trousers and work shirt, a pipe always in his mouth. He wears black plastic frame glasses with thick lenses. I have spoken to him many times in the last several years, over the garden fence, small talk mostly about birds and gardening and did I see the wild turkey that was raiding all the feeders lately?
I wave to him always.
I see his wife less often, but wave just the same. Over the years, it is harder and harder for her to make it across the property to our shared fencerow. Mandie has had surgery on both hips. The first one, Art said, went okay but the second one was harder, her recovery longer, taking the entire last winter.
This afternoon, I see Art bring out a chair for his wife to rest on. It is one of her "good days" and she has navigated the time and space between their back deck and the tomato grove. This is quite a distance. She probably thought about it for days, before even taking the first step, trying to imagine the familiar terrain under her feet but now complicated by the little plastic wheels on her four-point walker. Probably she mouthed the words, "Step, step, lift, place it down. Step, step, lift, etc," until she could imagine herself in the garden again.
We are in some kind of August heat wave, heat indexes high in the 90s. The air is still and wet. In response to this, Art rolled fresh a length of paper toweling from his work cart. Having let go about two feet, he returned the remainder to his cart. He tore the two-foot section, along its perforations, handing one to Mandie and applied the other to his upper lip and brow. Mandie dabbed at her cheeks and lifted her tightly permed white hair in the back to wipe the dampness away.
Art then produced a water bottle from the seat on his garden tractor. He sat sidesaddle on the tractor seat, while opening the bottle, offering it first to Mandie and then having a swallow or two himself. I could barely hear their voices, but could see their lips moving. Because our flower gardens and tree line are alive with birds, their whole exchange seemed to be running with a Disney Movie soundtrack.
Zippity-do-dah!
I half expected to see bluebirds light on Art's shoulder as he talked to Mandie, continuing to dab at the sweat on his brow, gesturing with his other arm to things here and there on the property. His pipe jumped and danced in his mouth as he talked, but on the seemingly important parts, he pulled the pipe loose, holding it in his hand for a time in order to speak more clearly.
Mandie watched, face upturned, from her spot on lower ground, sitting in the aluminum folding lawn chair. She smiled, wiping the back of her neck with the paper towel and sipping more of the cool water. When she laughed, I only knew by the tilt of her head. Her mouth would open for a time as if she hungered for air, or was a baby bird that needed feeding. As she did this, Art's shoulders shook and he'd lower his head, once again pulling the pipe from his mouth in order to release his laughter. It really did look as if they were feeding each other.
From my own yard, I could see the back and forth of it, and I wanted to "go there." I wanted to be there, in that back yard, among the wildflowers, the raspberries and the tomato groves. I wanted to hear what the birds sound like from their side of the fence. I wanted to ask them, though it is none of my business, "What is the secret of love everlasting? How did you get this far?" Or maybe I just wanted to stand there, wordlessly, in awe of their relationship, their love.
It's true , I want what they have, and this became crystal clear to me as I sat in the yard today. I realized that, for the longest time, I've been mourning the death of my marriage. My marriage has been done for some time now; this is true . My grieving should be taking on new shape. What I have been grieving most is that we lost at the starting gate. I am upset over what never happened. We achieved no higher moments, beyond stuffing cake into each other's mouths, laughing as we wiped the mess away with napkins bearing both our names, wetting our mouths with sweet champagne.
Art and Mandie had that at the beginning too, but I know now what they did differently. They opened the gifts after the wedding, not the ones that came with cards and bows, but the gifts they gave each other up front.
I realized sitting there, I cannot continue in this fashion. I cannot so firmly fight to hold on to what I never had. The dream, however, remains intact. If I am built for just this type of situation, I still have a long stretch of life left for what remains to be seen.
Dreams are generally useless, unless you point them in reality's direction. Before rising from my chair this afternoon, I lifted my left arm high waving towards Art and Mandie and shouted my hello. Their arms rose up in response, waving and calling back to me. No doubt, they were happy to see me out on such a fine day, and maybe voiced same, but their words were lost to the sky and bird songs.
Lowering my arm then, on the down side of the vigorous wave, my wrist came down like a gavel, striking the hardwood arm rest of my Adirondack chair. My watch face made a direct hit against the chair rail, my funny bone registering in shock, and sending an electric charge up my shoulder, past my armpit and igniting on the left side of my chest. My heart jumped as if just newly started. As I turned my wrist then, to glance at my watch, I saw that it has stopped by blunt trauma to the watch face.
My sister gave me this watch, many years ago, in an effort to prevent me from being late for so many things in my life. I decided, staring at the frozen hands, that I will not fix my watch today. I plan to just leave it rest there with "20" in the little date window and the hands stuck at four in the afternoon. Life starts now. I want to always remember that. S
