Getting On
A little riff on marriage, about what it meant to be us, John and Pharaby, a couple. Out in the side yard, in the wildflower garden, we have a golden lead ball tree. A tree unknown to me until my arborist son planted one grown from a seed he collected. It’s nearly head high and its blooming. Golden yellow balls, fascinating and beautiful. In the days of us, we’d be standing around the tree admiring its beauty, knowing we had another reason to anticipate spring, and being happy our son planted such a tree.
Watching and sharing is what we did for all our plants, the orchid tree, the roses, the salvias, the turk’s caps, the rock rose, and even the trees, tall and lush. We’d see them and smile and if one found a bloom the other would get a call, come look at this. Or we’d just go out together to walk the yard and see what we could see. Or we’d sit on the porch and discuss the day’s events, tomorrow’s calendar, and enjoy the view. Us. A couple.
None of these things, however, are less beautiful because they’re viewed alone, and it seems a shame to think so simply because I’m now by myself. But that’s what I do. Human nature, I suppose. Greedy for what’s lost, forgetting to be grateful for what I still have. Because I really liked that sharing bit. I derived a great deal of pleasure from doing it with her, and now it’s just me. That’s a little melancholy, but the seasons will pass, beauty will prevail, my son is still here, and friends will stop by to let me show them the flowers, and we’ll all get on together, making new memories, one glorious day at a time.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale