Category: Life Stories Page 45 of 46

It was 2 degrees Celsius and sunny this morning. The car was frozen, its windows painted in ice. The boys ran out of the house and they could not resist touching the grass. Frosty and stiff. Sparkling.

“Mom, look!” Beautiful. Crispness is to be appreciated. Everything seems cleaner when the air is crisp like this.

We drive half way and walk the rest. The sun clings to our backs as if saying “see, it’s not so bad…” What if the sun did not rise in the morning, I ask? We’d be dead, the answer comes short and unequivocal. True. So be grateful.

“Shhh, what is that?”

Sasha points to the globe of golden leaves in a tree we’re passing by. A magpie. Making some croaking sounds I have never heard before and looking at us. We stop and look.

Camera? No. In an attempt to be present with the boys during our walks, I am now leaving the electronic butler at home. But no magpie?

Yes, lots of it. More even, with no camera preoccupation, I am right there with the boys. We are quiet, listening to the sounds of the morning, admiring the magpie and its gracious flying low to the ground before perching on a branch in the next golden globe of leaves.

I can hear it all. The boys whispers, the magpie wing flutter, the noises it makes and the leaves we ruffle with our shoes as we say goodbye to it. No camera can capture that.

On my way back, I think of it all. Like carrying a handful of precious water from the brook to the thirsty, I carry the magpie thoughts home and place them here. A keeper of memories, a reminder for those who read, an invitation…

The air is still crisp and the hills to the south have a big cloud plopped on top like a big woolly hat. The cold air accentuates the softness. This will not last… Quiet.

Good morning.

Sasha during our walk from school today: “If we don’t have children when we grow up, the legacy of our name will die.”
He is seven and insightful. To love our conversations is a given.

Not so, I tell him. There’s more to legacies than just a name. Leaving something significant behind is what is all about.

What can that be, they both ask.

What can that be, I ask them back.

Run across the country for a cause, like Terry Fox? Yes.

A book? Yes.

But wait. What if you change someone’s life? What if someone’s path becomes lighter because of you? Whether you know it or not?

They pause, think and we walk along.

Yes, true, they agree. Hmm. They both say they haven’t changed anyone’s life so far.  They changed mine, one day they’ll know it. Introspection of that kind in children is an adorable feature.

We talk about whether a Budweiser baseball cap is a bad thing to wear at school since it can sway kids’ minds into consuming beer – a social studies conundrum from the day’s work – and we all agree that while many of us are walking advertisement billboards for various companies or products, a fast food cap can deliver a much more dangerous blow to the minds of children.

Talking, debating, asking and answering questions. That’s the most delightful part of parenting. Don’t miss it.

We asked them “Do you want to try it on your own?” They both said yes. Not a blink of “maybe.”
They grabbed paddles, bulked themselves up with life jackets and cut a path through the lily pads. A canoe, all for themselves.

They sway, they scream, they laugh, they give each other sailing names and they promise to come back in a few minutes.
At first they paddle along the shores though the lake is calm. Cautious but itching to go. They hop on the shore a few times, docking the canoe with the the nonchalance of canoe veterans. It’s charming to watch.

They come on the log where we sit, a long arm the shore has extended into the lake, a reminder of how the ground and the water will always be entwined.

“Mom, a snail shell for you!” My boys’ gifts, seen and unseen. Treasures.

The sky is light blue in preparation for another sunset. They hop into the canoe, ready for take off, and become two red specks in a their own special green lily pad. Laughter from afar slides over the water and climbs like a vine around my soul.

With every thread of water they carry over the surface of the lake, the boys are growing up… They laugh, learn and float into a world that has them thirsty for adventure.

They signal their first ever crossing of a lake by themselves. “We made it!” Yes, you have. And so much more. Keep going. No, come back! How could I ever get this right? I want them to learn, to dare, but to be safe. To be near. For now. For ever. Somehow, they will be. Their voices will trail back to my soul no matter how far they go. So keep going, the world awaits!

It is a well-known fact that mid-September sun has the habit of glazing streets, trees and electric lines in a golden layer that almost turns too bright at around 6pm or so. The air is a golden warm fog that makes you think of being hidden in the fluffy wings of some gigantic gentle bird.

It was past 6pm when Sasha said he wants to take his bike out in the back lane for some tricks.

“Race you to the end of the block!”

Nah, not feeling it tonight. It was mellow, you see. The air, my thoughts, the noises trickling from the gold-glazed city. I was stitching the back lane with steps, pacing as to not let Sasha get too far on his own. Mama bear instincts are never mellow.

“Watch this, mom!” He swerves, too sharp, almost falls but what a save! Wicked little smile that admits to nothing and the turning, swerving and brushing by long dry back lane bushes continues.

His tanned calves sprouting from summer-bleached shorts are still tiny, just like his arms holding the handlebars determined and already strong. His rosy cheeks are lost in long golden hair and pinned forever to my heart. Just like his brother a few years ago, he celebrates growing up with grins of satisfaction “Did you see that?” I did, but no hurry. To grow up I mean… They never heed such requests. We have today.

The golden glaze of September…Just like when I was little, grabbing my bike and heading out to learn tricks and speed and all the things I was thinking I shouldn’t do, but wheels and that fragrant fall air made me do them anyway. The air smelled of ripe grapes and I knew I had left the wooden ladder just ready to climb on and grab some more purple sweet clumps on my way in.

Sasha traces smaller and smaller circles in the lane, his shade following like a puppy. When the circles get too small, the bike slides sideways and  knees get scraped. “I’ll never ride this bike again!” Stomping feet and angry little face leave the bike asleep in the middle of the lane, quiet and dusty.

We sit at the side under gigantic weeds that play some palm tree game. I fell many times, you know, I tell him. It is like that… He smiles. Trickster, he knows he cannot stop now. He loves it too much.

“I want to learn tricks and be really fast on my bike, you know.” I know. That’s all I wanted back then when the air promised grapes and warm nights still. I still do. He will too, I know. It’s like that.

A slight chill drapes over the golden city, streets and trees and all. We go in. In the oven, deep orange squash is roasting and promising soft sweetness. Fall has nothing sharp in it.

Warm air curls around my feet like a sleepy cat. One of these days I will take my bike out for a ride, it’s been a while with a summer away and all. To trace my own circles. Fall has nothing sharp in it… It’s like that.

The sky was milky white again in early morning. A sign that the day will be a hot one, my sister said. It’s been like that for a few days now. A thorough heat wave cooked us all, humans and plants and animals under a cloudless sky and in 35 degrees Celsius in the shade. Yes, shade has been a mere joke you could say.

The kids run in with a tailless baby lizard they found in the garden. A very small creature indeed, light and delicate, with beady little eyes that sparkle. “It clings onto your finger when you hold it,” the boys say.

I know this lizard commotion, it happened two years ago too and I was afraid we might miss seeing the babies this year if they hatch too late. Until now we only saw adult ones, and every experienced lizard chaser knows they are so fast it’s impossible to catch them even for a bit to look at them. Plus, my niece says, they bite. It figures…

We are about to leave my sister’s family place, a house in the middle of field invaded by crickets at night and dotted with colorful shy wildflowers all year round. The boys got to roam free to their hearts’ content and bedtime was moved into some wee hours every now and then, because time with cousins is that precious.

Late mornings found us in my sister’s wild garden. The big people having coffee and chatting about the many things that make us skip a beat, laughing and walking down one too many memory lanes, while the little ones chased lizards and played games with no rules that sometimes ended in tears. So be it, life is like that when you help yourself to big gulps.

My sister garden is a magic place. That’s where I picked Calendula flowers for my sister’s soaps, that’s where we picked ripe cucumbers and tomatoes off the vine, and where we shared many life stories that made our eyes grow big but so did our hearts. To be grateful is a must.

Later in the day, gray clouds piled up over the hills and a beautiful storm took over. From up here on the hill the city looks charming, no matter the time of day or weather conditions. Early morning stitch the contour of the houses and distant churches in a thin white foggy coat, while daytime heat paints them all yellow brown with no desire to sparkle or stand out. Every night cricket choirs serenade the distant orange lights that dot the town streets.

Night comes, the cricket choirs begin seeding the night with thousands of chirps and now the air is pleasantly cool. We step outside to have a glass of wine. The countless roses my sister planted in the flower garden, plus our beloved childhood flower that only becomes fragrant at night, Nicotiana alata or Jasmin tobacco, which we always called “queen of the night” as children, they are all here. Our words and laughing of this and that land softly on them like night creatures that need to be.

A shooting star slides down the night sky. Perfect timing. Thank you.