Page 101 of Late Bloomer
And while Diksha gave care to the last pieces of Grandma Lou, I sat like a coward with my back pressed to the closed door, hands shaking as I tucked my feelings away.
I didn’t know loss could make you so numb. But the numbness was heavy, sucking all the feeling from my body and leaving me empty. Except for the threat of pain. That lived and grew, making me terrified to even move most days.
It wasn’t until Opal showed up that I started to feel again.
With a deep, shaky breath, I raise my hand, and turn the doorknob.
I blink, eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming in. The room is small, every surface softened by the thin layer of dust that sits upon it. On wobbly legs, I take one step into the room. Then another, standing in the center of her space.
I almost expect to see her perched in her bed, a steaming mug of tea next to her as she reads a book, the way she would smile at me over the edges of it. A knot gathers in my throat,and I look away, eyes landing on her vanity, the small vials of her creams and perfumes, a line of her ceramic trinkets next to the mirror.
Her wardrobe catches my attention next, and I move to it in three strides, pulling the doors open and pressing my face against the familiar, soft fabric of her shirts. I breathe in deeply, a tiny sob rattling out as my tears fall against the worn sleeves. I pull one down from the hanger, sniffing it again and hugging it tight to my chest before I slip it over my arms, wrap it around my torso.
I cry even harder, and it feels so good to let go—to let so many feelings I’ve held locked in my chest pour out as I wrap myself in her memory.
I miss her. I’ll always miss her. But the missing isn’t killing me like I thought it would. It’s a beautiful ache, a sacred, precious reminder of how much love I hold for her.
I stumble to her mattress, and thousands of late-night conversations, me cross-legged at the end while she was tucked in tight at the top, rush through my head. She talked to me about everything. Flowers and fears and faith and love. She told me stories and listened to mine. She gave me space to grow in that spot at the end of her bed. It was always my favorite.
I curl up tight against her pillow, hugging it to me as more sobs rip through my system, and it’s like I can feel her trace a loving hand through my hair, down my back, as she quietly encourages me to feel everything rushing through me.
I cry until my brain goes hazy and the world outside the window is touched with dusk. I cry for this woman I love somuch until I can’t cry anymore, putting to rest the pain that has eaten at me for so long. And then I lie there, and just breathe.
I stir from sleep a few hours later, rubbing my eyes and stretching with a yawn. I hug the pillow one more time, breathing deep, and I realize that, despite the ache in my chest, I’m smiling.
Sitting up, I click on the lamp next to me, blinking at the light. That’s when I notice the intricately carved box on the bedside table, and my smile grows. I’d forgotten this gorgeous thing existed. Picking it up, I roll it between my hands, thumbs tracing over the ornate flowers on the top.
This box held my fascination to no end when I first got to Grandma Lou’s house.
All women need a puzzle box to hold their secrets,Grandma Lou had told me one night, sliding it across the table.
What’s a puzzle box?I’d asked, trying to pry the lid open without any luck.
Well, exactly what it sounds like, she’d said with a kindhearted chuckle.There’s a trick to unlocking it.
She moved to squat beside my seat at the table. With sure fingers, she twisted the three poppies on the top until their longest petals overlapped and a littleclicksounded, a hidden compartment on the side popping open. Grandma Lou fished out the tiny brass key, handing it to me. She slid aside a hidden panel in the shape of a leaf on the back, revealing the keyhole.
Pretty cool, huh?
It’s amazing,I said, unlocking the box. She’d had someletters in there, a few pressed flowers, and a two-dollar bill.These are your secrets?I’d asked, twirling the dried tulip between my fingers.
She’d laughed, then poked me on the nose.Sorry to disappoint, sweets. One day, you can have it and fill it with your much more interesting secrets.
I’d fiddled with it so often over the years, twisting the flowers on top absentmindedly while I’d listen to Lou talk.
Holding it now with shaky fingers, I unlock it like I’ve done so many times, the little click creating a familiar echo in my chest. But as I slide open the top, a folded piece of paper tumbles out and onto my lap. It’s crisper and newer than the old letters she’d stored in there, and as I pick it up, I see my name scribbled across the front.
There’s a pink neon Post-it stuck on the opposite side, Lou’s large, rounded letters soft like a hug as I skim what she’s written.
TO-DO:
Rotate dahlia plots for next season
Or trim maple over plot 6 get more light????
Consider selling herbs in spring (??)
Ask Jane Taylor three farms up the hill for sprouts
