There is a bench facing the Memorial Garden. It faces the garden, the fencing, another bench, the hibiscus, the trees and the water. I suppose it's a place to sit and pay respect to those we've lost.
My mother's mother died when I was in eighth grade. My grandmother wasn't buried outside. There is no patch of grass to place flowers, no headstone.
Instead she was buried, along with many others, in a large mausoleum. I remember that I hated visiting that place with my mom. I remember that there was a large fountain where water poured from one metal-wrought leaf to the next. I remember there were candles to light and prayers to offer and that none of that could take away the smell of mold and mildew that permeated the place.
I remember wandering the halls as my mother sat on the couch by her mother's marker.
These are the places where imagination is born.
I believe that imagination is one of God's greatest gifts, given to us when we are most in need. Children have it abundance because it is free and comes easily. Adults find other ways to escape.
But children can create whole worlds.
And in these worlds, no one is ever alone.
Behind the bench at Hope's Memorial Garden is something that might go unnoticed. After all, it's behind and how often do we look behind us when what's in front of us has demanded so much attention.
There is lush vegetation, wild flowers, and today I noticed that among all that was growing, curlicue vines and weeds, there was one lone yellow flower. There had been more earlier, a few weeks ago. But now there was just this one. The hibiscus I took a picture of yesterday is already wilting and this yellow flower will soon follow.
It seems silly to say, but think back for second to when you were a child and believed such things were true: I hope this yellow flower dreams. I hope it dreams of fields of flowers and sunlight that enriches and never gives more than the flower can bear. I hope it remembers where it came from. I hope it remembers the smell, the mulch, the smell of autumn, of wet things that fall to the ground and nourish the earth so that something else will live again soon.
My mother's mother died when I was in eighth grade. My grandmother wasn't buried outside. There is no patch of grass to place flowers, no headstone.
Instead she was buried, along with many others, in a large mausoleum. I remember that I hated visiting that place with my mom. I remember that there was a large fountain where water poured from one metal-wrought leaf to the next. I remember there were candles to light and prayers to offer and that none of that could take away the smell of mold and mildew that permeated the place.
I remember wandering the halls as my mother sat on the couch by her mother's marker.
These are the places where imagination is born.
I believe that imagination is one of God's greatest gifts, given to us when we are most in need. Children have it abundance because it is free and comes easily. Adults find other ways to escape.
But children can create whole worlds.
And in these worlds, no one is ever alone.
Behind the bench at Hope's Memorial Garden is something that might go unnoticed. After all, it's behind and how often do we look behind us when what's in front of us has demanded so much attention.
There is lush vegetation, wild flowers, and today I noticed that among all that was growing, curlicue vines and weeds, there was one lone yellow flower. There had been more earlier, a few weeks ago. But now there was just this one. The hibiscus I took a picture of yesterday is already wilting and this yellow flower will soon follow.
It seems silly to say, but think back for second to when you were a child and believed such things were true: I hope this yellow flower dreams. I hope it dreams of fields of flowers and sunlight that enriches and never gives more than the flower can bear. I hope it remembers where it came from. I hope it remembers the smell, the mulch, the smell of autumn, of wet things that fall to the ground and nourish the earth so that something else will live again soon.
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