Fading Violets

© 2004 by Gail Gaymer Martin

The porch boards creaked rhythmically under the rocker rungs. She sat with her Bible in her lap and her eyes closed, listening to the music of the spring morning—the rustle of branches, the twitter of a sparrow in the young maple tree across the way, the sound of her chair against the planks. Her gnarled fingers played with the pulled black threads on her ancient cardigan sweater. Occasional occupations, like loose threads, amused her. If they didn’t, Emma’s day would be too long and lonely.

“Are you really old?”

The rocking halted, and the woman focused her eyes beyond her porch steps. Standing on the grass, a yellow-haired child squinted at her, the child’s face twisted with curiosity. Her faded tee-shirt lay loose at the neck, and a strap from her bib overalls hung over her narrow shoulder. In her hand, she held a few straggling wildflowers. She waited in silence, anxiety written on her face.

“Might be. I’m older than that tree,” she said, pointing toward the large oak that stood in the center of the yard. Emma remembered when she and her husband planted the tree so many years earlier when the girls were toddlers.

The child turned and studied the tree. As she looked back toward Emma, her eyes widened. Then the corners of her lips curved upward, and she took two steps forward. “Really?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“The kids who live by my grandma said you are. They told me not to come here because you were a witch.”

“A witch?” Amid her amusement, Emma felt a pinprick of sadness.

“But I knew you weren’t,” the child said.

“How did you know?”

“Witches are fairytales. You are a child of God just like me.”

Emma’s heart gave a thud and brushed her fingers across the Bible in her lap. “That’s right. We’re God’s creation.”

“I know. My grandma told me.”

“Who’s your grandma?”

“She lives down the street.” The child pointed to a white bungalow in the middle of the block. “Catherine Dorsett. She’s my grandma.”

“Ahh.” Emma raised her hand to catch the gray hairs straying from the pins that bound them against her neck. She watched the sunlight play on the child’s flaxen hair, cut straight and blunt to the ears. Many years ago, Emma’s hair had fallen to her shoulders in cascades of dark chestnut, glinting with deep red highlights everyone told her. Such pretty hair, people would say to her. In those days, she’d been lithe and supple like the sprightly child that stood on her grass, clutching a few sprigs of deep purple violets.

“What do you have in your hand?” the woman asked.

“Flowers—from my grandma’s house. I found them under the trees in the back yard.”

“They’re called violets.”

“Uh-huh.” She examined the flowers, raising them to her button nose with a deep sniff.

“Do you have a name?”

The child nodded. “Amanda. What’s your name?”

The old woman chuckled to herself. She wanted to say Mrs. Methuselah. “Emma. My name’s Emma, but I like your name best.”

“Me, too.” The child edged closer and sat on a step of the porch, laying the violets on the stair beside her. She gazed at the woman’s gnarled hands. Emma studied the child’s oval face. It reminded her of her daughter’s when she was a child. Amanda’s face was lovely like the spring day, but the jagged wisps of hair hanging on her forehead gave her an impish look. “What happened to your bangs?”

Amanda raised her hand feeling the short, uneven locks against her brow. “I cut them.”

“Why?”

“Because they got in my face’s way.”

Emma leaned back in the rocker with a deep-bellied chuckle. “I see.” Memories flooded through her, thoughts of her daughter Julie who had cut a hunk from her hair once for a similar reason. The memories felt warm like the sun and the shining face staring at her from the steps.

The child moved her fingers through the pile of wilting violets, then lifted her head. “Does your hair get in your way?”

“Oh, maybe, sometimes. If not my hair, lots of other things do.” The last was an afterthought, probably beyond the child’s understanding, but Emma knew what she meant. Too often life bogged down and hardly seemed worth the effort. Only her Bible reminded her of why she’d been given life. She’d recently read it in John. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.

But Emma’s abundance had faded. She’d been the best mother and wife she knew how, though sometimes she wondered if it had been enough. But not today. A smile played on Emma’s lips as she observed the child mulling over her comment.

“I’m five. How old are you?”

“Almost five hundred, I think,” Emma said, teasing the curious child, although sometimes she felt that old.

Amanda looked puzzled. She sighed, then drew in a deep breath. “Where’s your kids?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Like my grandpa? To heaven?”

“No, not to heaven. Just gone. They grew up, moved away, and have families of their own now.” Her daughters’ lives were busy and occupied with holding down jobs and raising their children. They called once a week or so and visited when they found the time. What more did she expect?

Amanda looked at her thoughtfully. “We put my grandpa in the ground. Grandma cries, and it makes me sad.” Amanda’s smooth brow furrowed into a troubled frown that in moments faded to acceptance. “My grandma said grandpa will feed the roses.” She looked away, apparently preoccupied with the puzzling thought as she righted the strap of her bib overalls.

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” Emma’s blurred reflection flew back to her husband’s death years earlier. She’d accepted it. Death was part of life, but it wasn’t her place to explain that to the child. She refocused on Amanda. “I suppose we’ll all feed the flowers someday.”

Amanda nodded. “I know, but it’s okay. My mama told me we’ll live in heaven.”

Her matter-of-fact response nuzzled against Emma’s heart like a summer breeze and she heard God’s Words in her mind. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it

The child lifted the sprigs of wilting violets from the steps and studied them. “Do you like flowers?”

“I think most everybody likes flowers, don’t you?”

She didn’t respond, but looked down the block toward the white bungalow. “My grandma makes me cookies. Do you make cookies?” Her questioning gaze locked with Emma’s.

“Not too often.” Awareness spilled through Emma. She’d forgotten her social manners. “Are you hungry?”

The child’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and her mouth curved into a smile. She scooted herself to the top step. “Do you have cookies?”

“Let me look.” Emma rose slowly from the rocker. “You wait here.” She shuffled across the porch and through the doorway. Smiling to herself, Emma examined her emotions. She’d felt lonely the past weeks, almost feeling sorry for herself and even resenting her own children’s busy lives. But today her little friend had brought back warm, bright memories—along with a few sad ones, but that was no matter. Emma could handle those, too.

When Emma returned to the porch, she carried a small glass of milk and a paper napkin wrapped around three store bought cookies. She set them in front of the child on the porch step and returned to her rocking chair.

Amanda nibbled on a cookie and concentrated on a squirrel darting across the lawn. When the squirrel skittered up the oak, she turned her attention back to Emma. “Where are your friends?”

Taken aback by the question, Emma sent her first thoughts sailing. “Don’t have a one. At least, not one that counts.”

“Are they dead?”

Emma shrugged. “You might say so.” The child’s expression startled her, and Emma was immediately sorry for her unthinking response. “I don’t see my old friends very often,” she corrected, hoping to smooth the child’s saddened face.

The church ladies had always been nice, but finding it hard to get around, Emma didn’t attend as regularly. Still once in a while, someone called, and the Pastor stopped by for a few minutes to bring her communion and pray, but that wasn’t a real friend. They’d all gone to glory or drifted from her life with time.

Thoughtfully, Amanda dragged her tiny fingers along the cracks in the porch boards, then lifted her head and looked shyly at Emma. “I can be your friend.”

Emma’s eyes misted, and unable to speak for a moment, she sat in silence, reining her emotions.

Amanda squirmed on the porch step with her head tilted as if waiting for her response.

“That would be nice,” Emma said when she’d gained control.

The girl’s face brightened, and a smile formed on her pink lips. She rose, folding her hands together in front of her as if business were concluded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Emma nodded, waiting to see her next move.

With hesitation, she inched toward Emma, then stood at her rocker studying Emma’s gnarled fingers. Unexpected, Amanda lay her smooth hand on Emma’s, then slowly raised her periwinkle eyes. “Know what? I think you’re nice even if you are old.”

Emma covered the child’s soft hand with hers. “Thank you.” Her voice broke to a faint whisper.

“We’re staying with my grandma for a while so I can come to visit you.”

“Certainly,” Emma said, “that’s what real friends do, I think.” Emma’s heart swelled as she watched the child hop down the steps and skip across the lawn. On the sidewalk, Amanda paused to wave good bye.

Emma sat back in the rocker and watched the girl until she disappeared into the white bungalow. When the child had vanished, she stroke the black leather of her Bible and bowed her head. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of the little girl. You know loneliness the same as I. It’s part old age, I suppose, but help me to accept it and still find joy in each day. Amen.

That night, Emma slept better than she had in weeks. Waking later than usual, she opened her front door and stepped out to the porch, wondering if Amanda had been only a dream. The golden light sprinkled shifting patterns on the worn wooden boards. She pulled the cardigan around her shoulders and sat in the rocker, facing the white bungalow down the block. As she plucked at the frayed, blue threads of her sweater, her eye caught a flash of deep purple at the edge of the porch.

Emma shifted her feet and rose, then moved to the porch edge. She reached down and grasped a small jelly jar filled with violets. She balanced the container on the porch railing and eased herself into the rocker, her eyes focusing on the blur of spring color.

The child’s face rose in Emma’s thoughts, taking her back to the rich memories. What a gift she’d been. Life was full of wonderful recollections that she’d nearly forgotten, but Amanda had opened the box and released them. Maybe one day, she’d meet Amanda’s mother and tell the woman what a joy her daughter had been and how she’d offered a bright spot to her day.

A squirrel skittered along the grass, and Emma watched another follow it into the tree branches before she shifted and settled her back against the chair. As she rocked, her gaze often drifted to the porch railing and the jar of wildflowers for reassurance. Except for the fading violets, Amanda may have been only in her imagination.

Then, she heard it— a child’s distant giggle. Peering passed the railing, beyond the blur of purple flowers, Emma’s heart lifted as she saw Amanda skipping down her sidewalk, the child’s hand waving a hello above her head.

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