The Meadow

There's a meadow I often retreat to just a stone's throw from his house--a house engulfed by mountains and aged oak trees, nature's rendition of skyscrapers and corporate business buildings.

People often deem a place like the Blue Ridge Mountains "fine scenery," as a "place with good hiking." And that's about the extent of it. They forget--or perhaps are ignorant of--the benefits of tilling land and plowing fields. The reward of good, hard, honest work that comes from digging in some dirt as opposed to the endless social media scrolling at some random 9-5 desk job.

I often find myself wandering back to the meadow, sitting in its thick blades of grass, which are about as wispy as my fading-brown bangs. Matching in color, too. Today I decided to bring the journal Mom gave me before passing, an 18th birthday present. It was a hiking accident, in case you were wondering.

Ever since I was a baby, she'd write in this little black notebook: a curation of all sorts of recollections in my life and in hers. Love notes, memories of me, hard moments--

[6.24.1993] Oh, my dear, when I see you, I see orange. I see your warmth, joy, passion, determination, sunshine, boldness, strength, the very brightest sunset.

[2.10.2001] Shay, my love, remember the value of integrity. Those girls may be fond of name-calling, but that doesn't mean you have to be. Shake the dust off your feet, pay them no attention, and move forward in forgiveness and kindness. That's how you win.

[10.20.2008] Today your father left us. My heart broke watching your pale cheeks pressed against the side window, hands pleading to stay with rhythmic pounding against the glass. There's nothing that I can imagine saying to make this okay, because it's not. So instead, I call your favorite Chinese restaurant for takeout and watch you read your fortune, 'Let fresh starts put you on your way.' I don't know where we're headed, but I'm with you every step of the way.

Fresh starts...something I crave these days. Hell, I'd even be satisfied with a few droplets of morning dew to help me survive the mess we're in, to hydrate a very thirsty bank account, to protect a rather fragile 27-year-old and her younger sister--

"I knew you'd be out here."

I snap the journal shut and smile to myself. Of course I know the voice. The sweet, lovely voice that's been with me the past 16 years.

Before I can push myself up and rub off a few grass stains from my white-washed jeans, she plops down beside me, dodging a few prickly blades.

"What's Mom saying today?" Wren asks, curious.

"Oh, just how you can't seem to stop stealing my clothes, namely those nude wedges you kept taking because you thought Brendan liked taller girls," I tease.

"'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,'" she mutters. I laugh softly, and we sit there for a moment, watching the cloud forms shift and twist and thicken, something Mom would always do. It's a noble thing to let your imagination rumble a bit. So, c'mon, tell me: What do you see?

"I hope it rains..." Wren says, interrupting the memory.

"We need it, don't we?" Unusual that we've fallen under this drought's spell. Rather unfortunate, actually. We're behind on our payments, thanks to produce with great promise falling short. And I mean that quite literally. Many crops, like our cabbage, are dying, yes, but then our apple trees are simply producing a lot less than normal.

"How much do we owe?"

"Oh, Wren. About $20,000. But don’t worry about it. We always find a way, you know." I grab her hand, a simple reassurance. It seems to do the trick, although I feel my own fears lingering. Some days, I wonder if I’m fit for this role. Sister, yet parent. Friend, yet provider. I hardly can take care of myself, and moments like this make me wonder if I’m failing her, the most sprightly human being I know.

“I almost forgot why I came out here,” Wren laughs, tugging my arm. “Someone’s waiting at the house for you!”

“Who is it?”

“You’ll see,” she grins, beginning to run.

I chase her out of the meadow, through the small, windy forest with the creek we often swim in, and up the hill where our house is perched. Though he’s turned away from us, I immediately know who he is, even before Wren shouts his name.

"Everett!" Wren flies up our creaky wooden steps--which are in desperate need of a paint job--and hugs him again.

He tousles her hair, as fiery red as our house, then turns to look at me as my cheeks grow hot.

“Hey,” he says, walking towards me. “Surprise.”

"When did you get back?" I ask, dodging his hug.

"Just this morning. I'll only be here for the weekend before I head out again."

"Where are you off to this time?" Wren asks him, "and can we come with you?"

"Ah, you know I'd love you to," he smiles sincerely, meaning it. "After this, I’m done traveling for a while."

“Oh yeah?” I arch my eyebrows, remembering our last conversation. The one five years ago where Everett tossed his duffel into the car and told me it was time to ‘pursue bigger dreams, see new sights, travel the world.’

Something wet hits the tip of my nose. "Oh! Do you feel that?" We hear the storm begin to rumble, and watch the clouds heave up towards us.

“C’mon,” Everett tugs at my t-shirt. “Let’s get inside.”

We watch the rain from a picnic bench on our back patio, Wren whooping and hollering while I sit pondering. I watch as she, free spirit that she is, runs out amidst it all, making a few ungraceful twirls in the mud and not caring at all.

“So what happened?” I ask him.

“My roots grow too deep in this soil.”

I roll my eyes and lightly shove him. “No, c’mon, you’re not getting out of this.”

He looks away for a moment, pondering. “I think it took time away to realize just what I wanted. Exploring the sights was lovely, but you...but this,” he waves his hands, “is everything I want.”

I love you.

I don’t say it. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t need to. It doesn’t change the past and its lingering hurt. Instead, I shoot him a glance that says, Show me you’re not just full of empty talk. He responds with a smile, I will.

“Hey,” I lower my voice, changing subjects. “I want to show you something I found in Mom’s journal today.” I make sure Wren’s not looking before finding the page. “Read this.”

Shay. Timing is everything. There’s a moment I want you to go back to, almost literally. Remember the day your father left? Well, often in our worst storms there is the reminder to hope. Surely you know this, my little farmer girl. That, as things deaden and decay, the soil itself is prepared for new life. Go tend to that spot, the spot where one goodbye made way for something new.

I watch him finish reading, gently handing the journal back. “What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure. Go find my dad? Or a place that reminds me of when he left?” I pause, thinking. “I need to go back to the window sill and see if I can remember anything. Do you think you can keep Wren distracted for a little while? This is between my Mom and I.”

“You know I can,” he pats my leg.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, standing up.

“Shay?” I turn around. He hesitates. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“We’ll see.” With that, I head over to the window, pushing that moment out of my mind.

My mother did have an imagination, and the window where I watched my father walk away is the last thing I could imagine from that day.

I pull up a wooden stool and sit at the window for a while--listening, feeling, observing. A night I often press out of my mind, afraid of its hurt. Of not being enough for someone.

I hear the engine rumbling, the tires rubbing against the gravel parking lot before zipping off, the lack of any goodbye from him.

I see my mom wrapping her cardigan tightly against her waist, a shadow moving by the maple tree with the homemade tire swing--

Wait. A shadow moving? Perplexed, I close my eyes a moment. And suddenly, it all comes back to me.

***

“Well? Anything?” Everett pours us another glass of wine while Wren sleeps soundly on our plushy couch.

“You were there that day, weren’t you?” I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and turn to face him.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I was. I had just stopped by to bring some pumpkin bread from my mom. I really just wanted to say hi to you, until I realized...”

I nod, understanding.

“But there’s something else,” he adds. I wait for him to continue. “That night, your mom saw me standing there in the shadows. She noticed me after your dad left, after you disappeared from the window. For a moment, we just stood there, taking it all in. A minute later, she looked at me and said, ‘She's going to need you now, more than ever.’ I promised her I would always be there for you, and that was it.”

I stare at him silently, starting to feel my head spin. He looks at me strangely, then abruptly picks up his keys.

“I should probably get going,” he heads for the door. “Need to say hi to my folks before I head out again.”

“You need a ride?”

“Shay, it’s a five-minute walk.” He swings the door open.

“Yeah, but the rain,” I protest.

“I’ll be alright. Promise.”

We make our way to the door, and give him one last big hug. “I’ll see ya.”

He makes his way down the steps, pausing at the last one. “Soon.”

***

I wake up the next morning sad, lonely, and all the other emotions eerily similar to the first time he left town. As complex as love is, as strange as it seemed to be, it is equally as simple. I still wanted him.

“Morning! There’s something waiting for you outside.” Wren lurches me out of bed and drags me through the corridor to the front porch. She points to the tire swing gently swaying from the breeze. There’s a large, bright yellow envelope pinned to the rope, and I cross the yard to grab it.

I tear it open, immediately finding crisp dollar bills, counting all the way up to $20,000. My mouth agape, I quickly look at Wren. “Did you tell him?”

She shakes her head. Unconvincingly, might I add. “Hurry up and read the letter.”

I unfold the thin sheet of notebook paper, turning it upright.

Dear Shay,

This is me keeping my promise to your mom. I hope this money serves as a fresh start for you, and dare I say it, for us together. If you’ll have me.

By the way—you may want to check inside the tire. I left something there for you, and will wait for you in the meadow in case your answer is yes. I’ll be there until sunset this evening.

Yours,

Everett.

I already suspect what the little black box contains inside. But the diamond is far more beautiful, more intimate, than I’d ever imagined.

It was my mother’s—or had been, as I would soon find out, until she passed on to Everett two years after their talk.

“Mothers just know these things,” she’d told him.

Yes, indeed Mom. I delicately place the ring on my finger, then give Wren's hand a squeeze.

“I’ll be back. I’m going out to the meadow.”