Some of my fondest memories are with my Grandma, walking out to her in the backyard. Her arms covered up to the elbow in dirt as she tended to her garden. Lilly of the valley, roses, irises, and violets. Garden statues, stepping stones, and bird baths. These were what she used to create her world.
With time and age, some things had to change though. She can no longer kneel to the earth and prune and trim to make her flowers grow. Some days she can barely remember what birds she used to love to watch hopping at the back window or chase from a patch of seed newly bedded. But it was easy to see that when we set this dirt in her hands she remembered the feel, even if for just a moment before it flitting away.
It was there. That comforting known touch of earth in her hands. That familiar, lingering brush with countless memories before letting it all fall slowly into the wind. That moment of clarity dissolved into a determination to brush of her clothes from the mess we caused her. Curious in what we were up to, my Grandfather walked over. Took her fretting hands in his as he bent to sit beside her. There was a flicker in that too. A steady, creeping smile in his hands around hers.
On her face was a kind of calm contentment. Though fading once again, to realize that even towards the end, there will always be a touch that can bring you back.
