Grown Woman Cry II

So I was standing in my back yard today, completely minding my own business, when something in my sub-conscious mind urged me to pick up the shovel that was resting against my fence. The neighbor had borrowed it weeks ago, and I had never gotten around to putting it back in the tool shed. So I started digging. And digging. And digging some more. It wasn't totally haphazard, mind you. I had decided almost immediately after we bought this house over a year ago that I wanted to plant a garden in the backyard. I handed my two-year old a little hand shovel too, so he could "help."

I started with a little square. I cleared it of the crab grass that had taken it over. I pulled at roots. I smiled at the dirt that had not been on my hands and underneath my fingernails for years. I wondered after I cleared the square what I was going to do with it. After all, I have never gardened successfully. What will make this time different? I thought. I don't even know what should I plant. I have no clue about full sun/partial shade/hardy temperature/soil acidity, etc--all the things you're supposed to know about when you can call yourself a gardener. But I kept digging anyway.

It occurred to me also, as I was toiling away, that I hadn't finished my story last night about the contents of the package.

Inside the box was a marvelous red fire engine for my son's second birthday.

My father had said that we "kids" would have to write down our birthdays, etc. for him because it had always been my mom's job to take care of cards and packages. He warned me the day after my mom died, while we watched BBC in his home office, for lack of anything better to do, that he "wasn't good at remembering such things." How curious, I thought, that he would be thinking about that right now. He'd always been a very take-care-of-business-sort. It was awkward, even for me, to think about. I'm sure I must've changed the subject. I didn't want him to have to remember anything. I'd be willing to give up my birthday, and all my family's, if it meant letting him off the hook of one more thing to worry about.

My son let out a squeal of delight when I was able to finally free the fire engine from its box. It had lights that blazed, and sirens that roared, everything that a two-year old boy needs to make his dreams come true. But me, I'm just happy about the box, and all that it entails, still lying in the cornerof my living room. My father's welcome penmanship. His shopping trip to try to imagine what he himself might have liked "when he was that age." Him in line at the post office, knowing he was mailing something to a little boy he loves. And him remembering.