Autumn Leaves
It was the fall of 2016. Over five months had passed since the ‘fight to save Frank’ was over, and more than three months lapsed post the event that forced me to realize our bond could end in an instant. Day by day, I tried to embrace the moments of the present, versus what could have been. Still, reminders haunted me.
Maybe it was a form of escape, maybe I was merely trying to add normalcy to the abnormal. Whenever the weather permitted, leaving the building with Frank in his wheelchair in search of sunshine and fresh air gave pause to the realities of our situation. Those walks were beneficial for both of us.
Weather conditions peaked. Nothing would stand in the way of this October afternoon date with nature. When we rolled out the sliding doors of the facility, the memories of all the ‘best of fall golf days’ swept over me, nearly drawing tears. It was times like these that Frank and I would play twenty-seven holes instead of eighteen, because, as you know, you can never have too much of a good thing.
But now, the golf cart is replaced by a wheelchair. The clubhouse is the nursing home, and our banter of intellect and ideas had dribbled to single words of reply. All the things that were supposed to be no longer existed.
Out long enough, the sun’s rays began to make my skin tingle. I had forgotten to put a hat on Frank and didn’t want him to end up with a sunburn, so I eyed the shade of a tree not far away. Pushing the chair off the sidewalk toward the tree, the wheels immediately sank into the grass causing deep ruts. I was reminded of how unusually wet the summer and fall had been. But I wasn’t to be stopped on this textbook worthy autumn day.
My gnawing urge to reconnect us with the world made me want to stir Frank’s memories. I was intent on sitting in the shade and telling him all about the beauty of the day. I thought if he could just share with me the simplest of stimuli, I could find peace.
As I scoped the horizon for deep fall color, my search proved as barren as my hope. The view delivered more brown, taupe and grays, lacking the dazzle I had come to expect. Where were the deep oranges, the intense reds, or the vibrant golds and amber? Why were some trees already empty and some still green? Why did everything seem out of sync?
The ruts caused by Frank’s wheelchair reminded me of a conversation with my neighbor some years before. I told him,
“Prince, I don’t know what I would do without your maples. Their color fires up like an alarm, telling me what time of the year it is. What kind are they?”
“Autumn Blaze. They’re nice, but they will never be as bright as they were the first couple years after we planted them.”
I chortled back, “Noooo. What are you talking about? Trees get better as they mature, especially these. You’re giving them everything they need – moisture, fertilizer and their location even has protection from the elements.”
Knowing I was deep in caretaker mode, Prince went on to explain. “Do you know where the color of the trees come from?”
I laughed as I rolled my eyes, assuming he just asked me a question from my third-grade science class. “Well yea, chlorophyll.”
He replied, “No, I’m talking about what causes the really great colors. It’s stress. Their beauty comes from their fight for survival. The first few years they were trying to establish roots while also competing for nutrients and stretching underground to connect with a tree’s natural water source. But now they get too much of everything. What we do to keep our lawns green and the gardens flowering are making the trees suffer from over abundance.”
Looking around, I noticed large brown patches in the grass. The air had a wisp of the pungency of mold. Sprinklers that continued to run with the combination of abnormal amounts of precipitation had been killing the grass through over abundance.
The artificial, or man-made delivery of the things we assume will fulfill us, actually only create shallow roots: shallow needs producing little desire to seek connections vital to the reason of our creation.
I began to ponder; had my desire to overdo, overthink and overcompensate stood in the way of the natural order of beauty? Were my disappointments hindering how God wanted me to share these present moments?
Pointing to a tree about a hundred yards away in the distance, I savored the memories. While giving him a kiss on his cheek, I said, “Honey, do you think you could hit a ball and get it close to that tree?” I smiled when he stared ahead at that tree, nodded his head and said “Yep.”
A twinkle of familiarity came over me. Then, Frank turned his head to look up at me. With his affection of which I was accustomed, he smiled and very slowly said “I….love….you.” All I could feel was perfection. At that moment, my suspicions were confirmed. Love does continue to grow. It reaches, despite the worldly ingredients we think it ought to have. It thirsts. It hungers. It fills absence.
Remaining under that tree, I rested my head on Frank’s thigh while he stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and felt more beauty than I ever imagined. Through Frank, God owned this moment. Sorrow or want didn’t exist. He alone truly IS the source of peace, truth and life.
