Rhythm of Life

"Let's go for a walk." my mother said one Sunday morning. It was already warm and sunny, at 9 o'clock. I put my cereal bowl in the sink and slipped on my old worn-out gray sneakers. Outside it was bright and my mother's long blonde hair shone like spun gold. Her eyes were the green color of cocktail olives with little brown and gold flecks in them. She was lovely, but she didn't know it. She dressed simply, light colored jeans, a navy-blue tee shirt with a small pocket at the top, simple white sneakers. She smiled as the sun hit her tanned skin and we both took a long inhale and slow soft exhale. The air smelled of freshly mown grass and wet earth. The sun was warm and comforting. We hopped down the steps to the front porch which wrapped around our old country home. We passed the large oak tree with the tire swing. I skipped through the patch of dandelions, picking a few and sticking them behind my ears, we rounded the bend of our long gravel driveway and stopped at the end, deciding which way to go. Mom bent down and picked up a white feather at my feet, twirling it between her finger and thumb, then she handed it to me. I stuck it in my hair next to the dandelions. We turned left, toward the stream. I loved walks to the stream, so I picked up my pace a bit. I was nearly eleven years old, and my mother and I had taken this walk hundreds of times. We had old photos around the house of she and I at the stream when I was barely old enough to crawl. It was our place. We came here at least once a week, more if we needed to reset from the day. My favorite time to come was in the evening. When our skin was warm and pinked from the sun and we could still taste the watermelon juice on our lips from dinner. The grass along the path would be dewy and cold and we could see fireflies beginning to stir in the far away bushes.

Morning walks were just as nice, I couldn’t think of a better way to start the day. As we reached the spot where the path widened, we slipped between two blackberry bushes stopping for just a moment to gather the few berries not taken by the birds. Down a small hill and past the large juniper bush and we were finally at the stream. I reached into the cool water and washed the juicy berry stains off my fingers, I plucked the white feather from my hair and twirled it between my thumb and finger before dropping it onto the water, watching it float away down the stream to the unknown. Mom sat on the fallen log staring into the gleaming babble. It sparkled and rippled past rocks and branches. We silently took it all in. Mom and I dipped our feet into the fresh crisp water. It felt like it was washing my soul, purifying my energy, like it was reviving me from my toes to my crown. I flicked cool water at my mother, we laughed and splashed each other. I wrapped my arms around her waist, and she lifted me up and walked me to the fallen tree. We sat, staring into the water, listening to the birds sing, she hummed along with them for a while before she began to recite my favorite poem. She started out barely over a whisper, her voice was always soft and calm at the stream.

"Gentle breezes soothe my soul like a butterfly wing on my cheek. Warm sunshine opens my heart like taking cupcakes from the oven on a birthday. The steady earth beneath my feet support me as I softly tread through this life. This gentle stream washes my sadness away like a mother's kisses on my tears. I am a part of this all and it is always a part of me. "

As we walked back to the house, arm in arm, I looked up at her and she smiled down at me. These were the moments I didn't know I would have in my heart forever. The ones that would carry me when she was gone. Perhaps part of me realized that then. I ran up the porch steps and into the kitchen. I poured mom and I glasses of sweet sun tea from the large old mason jar waiting for us on the windowsill.  My skin was warm and salty, I enjoyed the gentle breeze on my face through the kitchen window. We sat on the old floral couch and mom began reading to me from our favorite book. Her voice soft and soothing and as I watched the lace curtains blow in the wind, I felt my eye lids get heavy. I drifted off, lulled by the sound of her sweet voice. I dreamt of our day at the stream, she and I in our most perfect place.

When I awoke, the light in the house was different. A glowing gold shimmer peering through the leaves of the old oak tree, spilling across the worn hard wood floor. The house was different, and I was different. I was older now. The dusty floral couch was gone, replaced with an emerald green velour I had picked out many years ago. New lace curtains replaced the yellowed ones of the past. The old mason jar on the window was now a crystal pitcher. Mom was gone too, she had been for many years now, but her light still filled my heart.

I walked across the kitchen and poured myself a glass of sweet sun tea. "Mama, lets go for a walk." my son said from the doorway. I spun to the sound of his voice as a smile grew on my face.

We danced hand in hand down the steps of the wrap around porch, through the dandelion patch, past the old oak with the tire swing. We turned left at the end of the bent gravel driveway. Arm in arm we parted the overgrown blackberry bushes, popping sun warmed sweetness into our mouths as we rolled down the small hill and passed the giant juniper bush to the stream. We stepped into the cool fresh water and I felt a tickle at my ankle. I bent down and picked up a single white feather, I twirled it between my finger and thumb, and placed it in my sons curly hair, he squinted his olive green eyes dotted with flecks of brown and gold and smiled that smile I’d seen a thousand times. “Lets go have some sweet sun tea.” I said as we headed home in the glow of the soft evening sun.