Season

Rose has been losing her days. Since the divorce she has been spending much of her time in bed, sleeping. Sleeping through the anger, sleeping through the regret, sleeping through the loneliness, the almost overwhelming feeling that she has no real purpose in life. She had hoped that by now the grief would have begun to subside, and often it seems as if it has; but at other times, like today, it is as if the pain has only burrowed in more deeply. Some days she is afraid that something inside of her is folding up, becoming unreachable.
So, today, she has forced herself out of her tiny apartment. She has decided to walk the mall in the historic district, to get some sun, some exercise, to be around other people.

She is a tall woman, thin but not skinny. She wears no makeup. Her long blonde hair, left loose, is streaked with grey. It fans gently away from her face as she strolls along the cobblestone street. She wears baggy jeans and sneakers, and a brown leather jacket zipped to her chin. Lately she has become uncomfortable with her reflection. She looks tired; the lines around her mouth have become so much deeper in the past few months.

She stops to examine a window display. Bright orange cookie jars shaped like pumpkins, grapevine wreaths dotted with tiny silk flowers, wooden sculptures of Native Americans and pilgrims. Rose realizes that Halloween is just a few days off and makes a mental note to buy candy.

She strolls past a bakery, a coffee shop, a jeweler, stopping at a bookstore to gaze at a display of children’s

A teenage boy saunters by, not seeing her. He walks with a lopsided gait, a tough guy. He has the gangly look of a recent growth spurt; his handsome face is dotted with acne. She notices that he is wearing only a tee shirt and jeans, not much to protect him against the chill. He carries a neon green skateboard, which he slaps loosely against his hip as he walks. The sound echoes off the brick buildings on either side of them, exaggerated and loud, fading slowly as he walks away. She turns and looks at him, his skinny back is held so rigidly. The sunlight reflects off his brown hair in a golden halo. She wonders if it would embarrass him if he saw it, so innocent looking; childlike and beautiful, so at odds with his masculine demeanor.

An elderly black man, sitting on a bench, nods at Rose as she walks by. His eyes are liquid brown, deep and wise. He has an unopened book in his lap whose worn cover he absently stokes with leathery fingers as he smiles at her.

She comes to a fountain and pauses, noticing a ladybug inching its way along the stone border. A few small beads of water cling to its back. Sparkles of light on a miniature red M&M that suddenly splits down the middle. Its papery brown wings momentarily open, then fold back up again. She watches as they are slowly withdrawn back under the protection of the tiny brittle shell.

Rose hears music. The sound is high and light, woodwinds. The melody is haunting, full of longing and sadness. She walks over to view a window display. Little pewter fairies with stained glass wings perch on the edges of books about angels, guides, Tarot, and sun signs. Along the back wall there are colorful scarves and skirts draped over a stack of old crates, red, green, purple and cream against the rough brown wood. The fabric is wrinkly and translucent, like the wings of the ladybug.

She hears laughter and turns. There on the cobblestones behind her she sees a young woman holding the hand of a little boy about three or four. He wears an oversized baseball cap that threatens to cover his eyes. He holds some small offering to his mother in his outstretched hand. Tilting his head far back to see under the brim of the cap, he grins up at her. His mother smiles as she reaches her hand out, her face open and full of love, contented.

As Rose watches them she thinks of the many gifts her daughter presented to her over the years, still saved in drawers and on shelves. Drawings of ghostly shapes with dots for eyes, a shaky smile of a mouth. Predictable yet precious crayon pictures of daddy, mommy, baby and house. Christmas tree ornaments made of Popsicle sticks and cotton balls. Woodshop projects and ceramic figures made in art class. Each gift seems now to have come from further and further away. Created at home, on the kitchen table or bedroom floor, then from each successive school, every one more distant than the last. Then, after graduation, gifts from her daughter were all purchased at the mall across town.


It now seems inevitable that it would have happened just like it did.

Her daughter had gone off to college, leaving Rose and her husband alone. Two people who somehow seemed to barely know each other.
There they were, in an achingly empty house, staring mutely at one another across the unfathomable distance of the dining room table.
The divorce had come roaring out of that silence like a sudden hurricane, ripping to shreds what was left of her secure, safe world.

A memory from her childhood pops into Rose’s mind. She is six years old; in Sunday school. Her class is performing a Thanksgiving play for the grown ups. She is in the chorus, reciting a bible passage.
It comes back to her in its entirety, in the sing song voices of a dozen small children:

“To every thing, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to reap; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to break down and a time to build up; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace and a time to refrain; a time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away; a time to rend and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace.”

As the mother and son walk away, Rose turns back to the window for one last look. She catches her reflection in the glass and stands there for a moment, looking at it.
She reaches up and runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back, away from her face. Then she turns toward home.
The elderly man is still there, sitting on the bench, the book still lying unopened in his lap. He nods at her again. She nods back, and smiles.
"You have a good day, now"


A maple leaf floats silently down from the sky, brushing against Rose’s shoulder, landing at her feet. It is bright yellow, like a brand new crayon in a freshly opened box.

Rose thinks of the ladybug at the fountain. She wonders where it will go when winter comes.