"Allie,
come here. Look at this." The old man pointed. "It's a special kind
of wild flower called a trillium." He pointed again, showing the little
girl. She fell to her knees, face only inches from the white petals.
"Pretty," she said, and
bent closer to smell.
"There's usually not much of an
aroma," the old man, said, as he rather stiffly dropped to his knees, too,
joining his granddaughter.
"Grandpa, smell it," she
said, moving over to make room for him. "It smells good."
He bend down and took a whiff of the
imaginary scent. "Yes," he said, looking with affection at the little
girl by his side. "It does smell good."
They had just come out of a small
woodland area near the park where they'd been swinging and were heading back to
Allie's parent's home only a few doors down. A crow flew over. The little girl
looked up and recited the name 'crow'. Then she spied a robin. "Look at
that," she said, pointing excitedly, "Rrrrr...rrrr...Robin." She
looked at him and smiled. Their little joke about how he'd taught her two years
ago how to identify the early spring bird with r's for robin and red breast.
God, the affection he felt toward this little girl; his son's daughter, the
youngest of he and his wife's three kids.
Quickly she stood up. "Look
grandpa. A doggy."
He stiffly got to his feet and
turned. Coming toward them was a lady in a blue sweat suit walking a small white
dog who was straining at its leash. "Stand behind me," he said to Allie,
protecting her. To the lady he said, "Nice dog. What kind is it?"
She gave him an odd look, sizing him
up before answering, "Westie."
He turned to his granddaughter.
"Can you say 'Westie', honey?"
She didn't answer, only watched as
the lady and the dog walked by, hurrying a little, it seemed to the old man.
"Did you like the doggy?" he asked her.
"I did. He was so cute,"
she exclaimed, smiling. "I loved it."
"Maybe someday your mom and dad
can get you a doggy, honey," he said, starting to walk.
She reached up and took his hand.
"Will you get one for me? Please."
He smiled to himself before
answering. "Well, it's really up to your mom and dad." Then he looked
at her, and, seeing the disappointment in her eyes, quickly added, "But,
we'll see, honey. We'll see."
"Look grandpa, tulips,"
she called out, pointing. "Hurry." She ran ahead to the next yard.
The old guy finally caught up to
her. She was kneeling down again, smelling the flower. "Two, two, two
lips," he said, coming up to her.
She laughed. "No grandpa, tu...lips,"
she said, emphasizing each of the two syllables. He smiled, remembering how
much fun it had been teaching her letters and words throughout her young life.
She moved to a different tulip. "Look grandpa, your favorite color,
orange."
"Yes, it is, honey. What's your
favorite color again?" he asked, pretending he'd forgotten.
"Purple and pink," she
said, standing up and poking at him. "You're so silly."
They started walking again. She was six
years old, of average height and (he thought) too skinny. She was fun loving
and had a character all her own. Her mother let her dress any way she wanted
and today, when he'd picked her up after kindergarten, she wore a white and
black short sleeve dress covered with pink hearts over yellow and red striped
tights. On her feet were purple socks and pink tennis shoes. Her long red hair
fell past her shoulders and freckles dotted her checks. When they were together
they talked and laughed and she was a true joy in his life.
"Let's go into your folk's back
yard and check on the garden," he suggested.
"Sure," she agreed and ran
off, him following as fast as he could, which wasn't saying much.
His son, Steve, was looking out the
window into the back yard. "There's dad," he called to Emma, his
wife.
"Finally," she said, somewhat
annoyed. "He's lived with us for fifteen years. Today of all days he
should know we'd be eating by 6:00 pm.
Steve checked the clock in the
kitchen. "He still has a few minutes."
"What's he doing out there
anyway?"
"Looks like he's dancing."
"What?"
"Dancing." Steve shook his
head and sighed in resignation. "I'll go get him."
"Please hurry. I'm putting the
food on the table."
In the dining room were Steve and
Emma's other three kids and their kids. This was their Remembrance Day. The day
they got together to remember the short life of Alisha Ann Drayton, their
youngest daughter who, eighteen years ago today, had died of acute
lymphoblastic leukemia.
Steve went downstairs and out the
back door. "Hey dad," he called. "Come on in. Dinner's on the
table."
Out in the yard, the old man stopped
playing tag with Allie and turned toward his son. "Ok. Just give me a
minute."
"Sure, dad," Steve said,
walking over to his father and putting his arm around his shoulder. "You
doing Ok?"
"Yeah, son, I am." He was
quiet for a moment. "I just miss her, you know. We were close. She was one
of the best things that ever happened to me." Then added, "Not just
today, but every day is Remembrance Day for me," his eyes suddenly becoming
moist.
Steve sighed and gave his dad a hug.
"Me, too, dad," he said. "Me, too."
They walked slowly toward the back
door. Over his shoulder the old man turned and waved at Allie, standing in the
middle of the yard. The wind blew through her hair and the sun caught her
freckles just right. She smiled at him and waved back, locked forever in the
old man's memory. "I'll see you soon," he said to her as he turned
and started for the door.
"What'd you say, dad?"
Steve asked.
"Nothing," the old man said. Then he turned and waved at
her one more time before finally going inside.
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