Offspring

An old lady. A young boy. A flower filled garden. An unexpected meeting.

What a lovely day it is! I sit here in my favorite birchwood chair, gazing all the way back to the bungalow my husband called ‘the garden shed’, and I am filled with peace. The sky is cloudless blue, a scintillating shade of azure that would have made him smile. The large lawn sprawls beneath my feet, emerald green and impeccably manicured.

And the flowers—oh my, the flowers! No words can adequately describe their beauty. My late husband—Henry—planted them before he passed, and they are magnificent, a living testament to his eye for true beauty, his unsparing work ethic, his love of symmetry and order, all things in their proper place.

It is indeed a lovely spring day.

In my lap lies an unwieldy ball of navy wool, curled up like a sleeping squirrel. Navy was Henry’s favorite color: manly, strong, solid. I am knitting a shawl—a fitting occupation for an old, world-weary woman with little to anticipate but her own demise. I shall wear it on Sundays and other days of import, and on those d…