The Path

“Tell me a story, Mommy,” he pleads, as he snuggles under the his covers in the gentle lamplight.

“All right, Terry,” I smile, reaching for The Wizard of Oz on his bedside table.

“No, not that story Mommy, tell me a story, like - the ones you make.”

I freeze, my hand in mid-air. My smile feels stiff and waxy, and melts. “Not tonight, sweety.” I reach for the book again.

“But Mommy, you haven’t told me a story in so long, not since Daddy – “ he breaks off suddenly, his eyes widening, and falls silent. In his eyes, I know he wants to take it back. His expression causes me to catch my breath with a sudden, sharp pain. “Let’s - just keep reading, Mommy. We need to find out what happens to Dorothy.”

And I settle down beside him in bed, and together, we continue down the yellow road, and find the rusted tin-man, and Dorothy oils him so he’s not rusted solid and can tell her his story. When I finish the chapter, Terry yawns, opens his mouth as if to say something, thinks better of it, and yawns again, wiggling further under the covers. “Good night, Mommy. I love you.”

Putting down the book, I bend down and tuck his hair behind his ears as I give him a kiss. “I love you to forever, Terry.”

“I know, Mommy.”

I turn out his lamp and close the door behind me. I think I just here him whisper, “I love you to the river.” And now, I am alone, in that cold empty hall, leading to a cold, empty bedroom and a cold, empty bed. I shiver, opting to make my way downstairs instead. In the living room I switch on the gas fireplace, and huddle on the floor in a pile of blankets, bathed in the glow of its flickering light. Dimly, in the darting flames, shimmering figures dance and spin, remnants and figments of an imagination that I have lost the ability to access. These were people, friends, although made up, who learned and grew together. A brother and sister, bound together, always together, mystical creatures with the vision to bring beauty to the darkness of their world, light to lost children with broken lives; who rescued orphans and oppressed, and brought them to a safe place, a garden where found healing and hope. The images die away. There’s a stab of pain in my gut, I try to ignore it – that annoying sense of loss. I haven’t been able to find my way to the garden, much less bring Terry there, ever since – no, I tell myself, I can’t think of that now. I didn’t cry then, and I don’t have time now, I reason with myself. Sitting here gives me a chance to plan out tomorrow, yes, that’s why I’m here, why I can’t sleep yet. Let’s see - tomorrow I have to drive Terry to school in the morning, run some errands – the grocery store, the drug store -  then I’ll have to pick Terry up after lunch and take him to the dentist, and then in the evening Terry has … has baseball…

I jerk awake. Somehow, I fell asleep.

Something’s different. The light is brighter, like it’s the golden hour just before gloaming, where the sun shines softly on the trees and the bushes and the peonies, the azaleas and the hydrangeas, that range on either side of the intricate black and grey stone path that spirals away from my feet into the verdant leaves. It seems to beckon me, for all the world like Dorothy’s yellow brick road.

I shake my head, hoping to clear it, but still, I’m not at home anymore. Instead, I’m sitting in the midst of a lush, vibrant garden. Above me, roses wind their way over and around the trellis of a curved wooden arch, shading the area around the intricately carved stone bench that I’m sitting on. Slowly, as my mind whirls, I realize that I’m in the garden, my garden, from the stories. They’re real! It’s really real!   

I’m hallucinating. I know it. No, I can’t be here now. I’ll wake up soon, for real, and then... as I try to stand up, and trip over a vine that’s strayed it’s snaking course onto the walkway, and catch myself hard on my hands. Trembling, I push myself onto my knees and stare at the scrapes on my hands. They feel real, but that’s not possible… not possible…

And suddenly, I see a tear fall onto my hands. A leak in the dam. The scratches made a leak. Then another, than another. I watch, in fascinated detachment, as tear after tear rolls from deep wells of my soul, down my dry, dry face, onto my hands, like a rainstorm in a desert of times gone by. I feel the tears, I see them, and yet I still feel – numb. Then angry. Then just blinding pain. Deep, racking sobs. The flowers grow, the birds sing, the sun beats down outside my shaded alcove as I weep. “It’s not – supposed – to hurt – like this” a voice gasps, and coughs, then sobs and sobs. “The garden – shouldn’t hurt. I’ve already - It’s already – happened – like this – before… I thought I healed – already…” Pain etches it’s way up my spine, heaviness fills my limbs. My eyes are a veil of washed-out rivers, filled with the flotsam and jetsam of my anger and longing, of lost hope, of broken-hearted despair.

For the first time, I feel truly empty. Not numb, but drained. Lifeless. All the anxieties, the cares, the distractions that had covered up my pain, are washed away, leaving me defenseless and cold. Somewhere, a bird still twitters in a tree. A touch on my shoulder. I try to brush it away, but it stays. “Elaine?” Somewhere in that empty cavity I call my soul, the dull thudding of my heart grows faster, more painful. I look up.

My eyes see him. He’s there. I feel his hand. I know that hand. But it can’t be…”Matthew?” The words leave my mouth, a hazy vapour of sound. He lowers himself to a squat next to me. I know those laughing, hazel eyes, that quirk of the lips.

“It’s me,” he confirms, eyes twinkling. And I want him to keep holding me, to sit for ever in those strong, loving arms. Those arms that I’ve missed so, so much since we buried them deep in the dark, dark earth on that cold, rainy day. My heart is filled to bursting, now, with a new kind of pain. I think they call it joy.

“Are we really here?” Somehow I still can’t make myself say anything above a whisper.

“Yes. And no. You’re here, but I’m only here because you needed to be here.”

“What do you…”

He sighs gently, and a dreamy look softens those laughing eyes. “I am here, because the garden called me. You needed to remember. You needed to feel.”

I want to pull away. My muscles tense, but I can’t make myself move. “I – I didn’t need you after – I – Terry needed me – and – I needed – I need ­– to be strong.”

His soft eyes stop me, touch me. “Elaine.” His eyes hold me, pierce my soul. “You don’t have to do this yourself, like you did the first time, when you lost you’re father. You’re not alone anymore.” When I try to shift away, he gently takes my chin and turns me to face him again. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. A reed may bend, and sway, and lean on its brothers, but a tree may fall alone. You’re not alone on this journey, on this road.” My lips part, but no words come out. Anger, confusion, guilt sweep over me in great, rolling waves of pulsating, roiling darkness. My stomach clenches, and I lean over and hug my knees to my chest.

“Elaine.” He says my name, and the softness of his voice rolls in billows of light. My rocking slows. “It’s ok to cry. It’s ok to sometimes not be ok.”

I close my eyes, give my self permission to notice what’s inside. To plunge into that empty void. I slowly shift my senses outward. Somewhere, out there, there is sunshine. I feel it’s warmth, the trickle of rays slipping between the leaves and thorns of the roses. In my mind’s eyes I see the black stones, their wavy, imperfect patterns forming beauty and meaning and hope. The bird’s songs echo in the trees, their voices calling, calling, “you’re not alone”, “I’ll bring dinner on Monday”, “I can drive Terry to school,” “I’m right here. I’ll listen.” How many times had I brought others here, let them find peace and rest? Where could I go? Where was my garden?

“I can’t stay here, can I?” I say simply, opening my eyes.

He tilts his head to the side, that playful quirk in his lips again. “Yes… and no. Not here, exactly, but look around you.” He spreads his arms wide. “When you go back, remember the joy, remember the people who care. Let them hear you. Let yourself remember. Let yourself trust again. The people who come here don’t have to carry it alone.” He touches my arm gently. “Neither do you.”

That empty void threatens to close in. I knew I couldn’t stay here, but for just a moment, I’d hoped…

“I miss you.” I look into his eyes. I can say it now. “I miss you every night when I go to sleep and you’re not there beside me, every baseball game when I see Terry look up into the baseball stands and his smile falters when it falls on me, because it means you’re not there. I hate you when I think of something beautiful, smell sweet coffee grounds, think of some sarcastic comment that you’d say at just this moment that would send me into hysterics - and then, you’re not there, to share it with…

“And I love you so, much, that it hurts, and I can’t hurt that much, I can’t let myself hurt that much, or I’ll just fall apart and die, and be of no use to anyone.”

“Maybe when you fall apart, that’s when you can get put together again.”

I wonder. I stare into those deep, smiling eyes. Always laughing, yet always so real. Always joyous. Always hopeful, no matter how dark the times. Even when tears have pooled there, and fallen, dark pendants of sorrow and shame, when they dry, the fire still burns inside. Or maybe, those tears can kindle a fire anew.

I take a deep, shaky breath. A cleansing breath. I dry the tears on my cheeks, but know that there will be more.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “Oh, I miss you. I miss you.”

He squeezes my hand. “I love you to the river…”

“…I love you to the sea.” I respond. I feel his touch grow softer. A faint breeze sends tremors through the vines, sending the scent of blossoming roses to tingle my nose

“The waters can’t come ‘tween us…”

“’cause love holds onto we.”

I close my eyes. I feel a tender breeze against my cheek, and then I am, for the moment, alone. And, yet, not alone. Brightness dances on my eyelids. I feel warm, and snug, but oh, so tired. But more free than I have felt in, oh, so long. So heavy, and yet so free.

A board creaks. I turn my head, and at the foot of the stairs, I see Terry, eyes wide, a soft, blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His dad’s blanket. I didn’t know he’d been sleeping with it. “Mommy, are you… crying?”

“Yes, Terry.” I can do it. I can be strong, by being meek. I take a deep breath. “I was … thinking … about your father.”

His eyes grow wider, than fill with tears. Silent streams trace golden-tinged paths in the glistening firelight. “I miss him so much, Mommy.”

I scoot over and pat the space to my left. “Come.” He waddles over awkwardly, wrapped tight in the blanket to ward off the chill. As he sits next to me, his soft, compliant body relaxes warmly into my side.

“Mommy, will you tell me a story?”

I smile. “A story about the garden?”

             “Maybe later. But first, could you tell me a story about… Daddy?” The last word is a whisper. I wrap my arms around him, and rock him back, and forth.

The flames flicker, following the rolling cadence of our voices far into the night as they rise and fall, sweet laughter mingling with tender tears. Our road may not be golden; our road is surely long. But we are not alone in this world, any more than Dorothy was. We can open our hearts to trust again. I can trust again.

And as if from so far, and yet so very, very near, I catch the faint scent of roses, and hear a nightingale's song.