Page 91 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Thank you for this,” I say, turning my head to face him, him doing the same. The warm light makes the side of his face glow as hair falls across his face.

“You know,” he drawls, tracing a finger down the line of my jaw and neck. “I’ve also never had sex in a field of fall wildflowers.”

I don’t bother to hide my smile. “It’s incredible. You should try it sometime…should you find yourself in that situation.” I roll on my side to face him. “If you have space in your backpack for a condom.”

Gripping his hand around my neck, he pulls me close. “One step ahead Pam Beesly, it’s in my pocket.” Then, his mouth is on mine and I’m so thankful—so burning with need for him—that I almost cry. Because it’s a day I can’t get pregnant. Because he brought protection. Because we are in the possibly most beautiful place on planet Earth at this very moment.

What starts slow and sweet turns fervent between us. I’m not an exhibitionist, but this.This. I just can’t say no. Our pants only make it down our legs and the rest of our clothes stay on before he’s rolling the condom on and sliding inside of me.

His mouth never leaves mine. He kisses me like he loves me, but he fucks me like he needs me. Fast, hard, and like he’s on a mission. Moving like he’s losing control.

With the next move of his hips, my back pulls off the ground, and fingers dig into the bare skin of his back under his sweatshirt.

The next, my eyes roll back.

Then a cry.

Deep.

Deeper.

His breathy whisper, “Let me see it, Birdie.”

Gone.

Bo sends me to heaven from church with a mix of cries and gasps that dance off the petals and into the wind. A mountain breeze I want to feel forever and always.

Thirty-seven

When I walk Samand Mabel into Veda’s sunroom, she has spots for them ready with balls of clay, cups of water, sponges, and several wooden pointed tools around the big worktable when we arrive.

“Veda, this is the rest of the gang, Mabel and Sam,” I introduce them. “This is Veda.”

Sam grumbles about forced arts and crafts while Mabel looks around the room and says, “Lots of uses for the tools in here, Birdie dear.” She clicks her tongue and slides a notebook out of her waistband.

I press my lips together in a tight line as Veda’s eyebrows pinch.

Here we go.

Hair pulled back in a neat and tidy bun, Veda stands at the head of the table wearing a flowy blue shirt and pair of black pants with greyish streaks across the legs where she’s wiped her clay-covered hands on them.

“Well, Birdie dragged you all here to make something, so let’s make the most of it,” she says, teasing, which breaks the ice enough to make them laugh.

She holds a small ball of clay in her hands. “I won’t mince words, we’re all old. Our bodies don’t give a damn about what our brains want.” She sounds like a cross between a stand-up comedian and an angry school principal. “I’ve made all these beautiful things”—her hands sweep around the room toward the shelves lined with her bowls and vases—“but my hands have thrown in the towel on all that and I’ve learned to manage my expectations. You will too. I want you to put whatever you think you should be doing in the garbage can of your mind. We are here with the tools we have, no matter how shaky and weak, to make something beautiful. We’re old, not dead, and there’s a different measurement of beauty that comes with that.”

Her eyes flick to mine before she continues.

“Now I want you to push a finger into the clay, feel it.”

Mabel jumps right in, Sam reluctantly following, pushing into the doughy balls in front of them.

Veda guides them through different ways of pinching and pulling, showing them how to form a variety of shapes. I demonstrate with her guidance until I’ve formed a goofy face on my own ball of clay that makes them chuckle.

“Here are some other ideas.” She sets a sculpted bird, elephant, and abstract monster on the table. “But the sky is really the limit. So whatever you love, you can make…in your own way. Whateveryou make, I want it to be something that means more than having it look perfect.”

“I don’t have a creative bone in my body,” Sam grumbles.

Veda’s hand gives her token swat. “You’ve survived to grumpy old manhood, that takes some kind of creativity.” Eyebrows raised, her words shut him up.

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