Our Heart (10 page)

Over the years, many people had tried to buy the painting from my Grandma. She always told them she had put it on display at the town hall and that is where it would stay. Upon her death, six months ago, she donated it to the city in her will. Shortly thereafter, the current city council members had a plaque made, recognizing her gift, and mounted it under the painting. My grandpa told me once that an uppity art dealer from Boston had heard about the painting from a colleague, who just happened to be driving through. This happened back in nineteen seventy-seven, before I was even born. The art dealer stopped by the town hall on his way to St. Louis to look at it. The story goes of how he was so touched by the emotion painted into the picture; he sought out my grandma and offered her five thousand dollars to sell it to him. She smiled and graciously said no. He nodded his understanding. Instead of shaking her hand, he took her in his arms and gave her a tremendous hug. Everyone in town observed it, so they claim. As he walked back to his car, he couldn’t stop wiping the tears from his eyes. I’m sure like all stories, over time, it had grown and been greatly exaggerated, but the townsfolk still talked about it even today. The older people in town felt it was their duty to pass on the story behind the painting to their children. They would stand in front of my Grandma’s one true and undisputed masterpiece and share all their infinite wisdom on the subject matter.

I asked Grandma one day why she didn’t paint like she used to. It was a question I asked in response to a conversation I had overheard. Someone made a statement about my Grandma Sarah and how she had wasted her life not pursing her God-given talents to paint. I must have been thirteen or fourteen at the time. She hugged me, when I posed the question to her and smiled saying that someday I would probably understand much better than today. She was never afraid to treat me like an adult and always answered my questions to the best of her ability, even if I didn’t understand the meaning in her answers. She imparted to me that, sometimes in life, there are special moments when you rise above your own abilities to accomplish something of purpose and meaning. A time when pure inspiration and a divine, guiding hand compel you to be more than you ever thought you possibly could be. For some, it is the beginning of a journey and, for others, the culmination of a life’s epic pursuit. For my Grandma Sarah, the painting was her personal zenith. Grandma said she knew deep inside she would never be able to achieve the same level of completeness ever again.

I asked her if she felt a loss for not being able to enjoy painting like she once did and, again, she smiled her amazing smile at me. Without hesitation, or any signs of sympathy in her voice, she let me know it was the inspiration of the painting, which she carried with her every day of her life. It now gave her immense enjoyment, so far above what she once got out of painting, for painting’s sake alone. She was right; at thirteen, I had no clue what she had meant by that statement. It wouldn’t be until several years later, when the meaning behind her words would become clear and guide my battered soul during difficult times.

I walked once more up this hill of my youth, my own memories so vivid. I once wandered the field, collecting and chasing insects, playing under the branches of the old oak tree. The importance the meadow once held for me still resided here, if only in my thoughts. I could not stop the memories from replaying in my head, the picnic with Allison, not long after the town festival and her first visit to the tree. Later, Allison and I would share the magic of this place when we chased away childhood. On that day, underneath the watchful and protective branches of the grand old tree, I understood what my Grandma had meant years earlier. It was this memory that fought its way into my brain as I came to the crest in the hill. I could see all of it as clear as the day it happened. I still could not come to terms on how a special day full of promise could dissipate and be lost forever, in one shattering moment, barely a month later.

I stopped and gazed at the old oak tree. It was only a tree, yet it captured my attention as it always had so many times before. In the last six years, I hadn’t been back here. I wasn’t ready to face the meaning and memories of this place when my Grandma Sarah had passed on. I left town before giving in to the nagging pull the old oak tree threw out towards me, begging me to come and sit a spell. The tree looked the same, and yet, somehow, I could tell it was different. Since I’d last seen it, weather and time had had an adverse effect on the posture of the old tree. The tree used to be nearly as wide and full as it was tall; now there was a noticeable gap in the middle branches. Sometime in the past, a large branch must have broken free from the tree. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to search for it. I scanned along the ground for any signs of the missing branch; there were none and I couldn’t stop my feelings of guilt. The tree had been such an important part of my life and I purposely turned my back on it, as well.

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old oak, as I fixed my eyes on it. If it was human, I would have said it looked out of sorts. It’s funny how we attribute human feeling and characteristics to the things around us, but this old oak had never felt like
just a tree to me. It had shared in many conversations; even though it couldn’t speak, it still gave a response; you only had to listen. It kept all of my secrets hidden deep inside its core. The tree never broke a promise or went back on its word. It was a friend who always helped when you needed it most. I wasn’t the only one it had mentored. Others also came to seek its confidence and share their own conversations with the lord of the meadow. This place had a special way about it, and I was not the only one to feel it. There are places around the world that emanate peacefulness, calmness, and sometimes even forgiveness; this place was one of those.

The open space within the branches of the tree gave it more of a sad look. I don’t know why I felt this, but I did. It made me wonder if somehow I might have been the cause for its sadness. It was silly to think this; I know…yet the thought seized me just the same.

I took a deep and calming breath so I could face the tree. The memories of the day with Allison were almost more than I could endure. As I reached out my unsteady hand to touch the bark of the tree, tears of long-stored emotions overwhelmed me. I could do little more than brace myself, relying once again on the strength of the tree, as uncontrollable sobs erupted from my tired soul. I turned and put my back to the tree, allowing myself to slowly slide down the trunk until I sat on the ground at its base. I hugged my knees to my chest and
fell into the
memories past and the sorrow of the present. It wasn’t the loss of my grandfather or even Allison, which
tore at my soul
; it was deeper still. I had somehow lost myself, and I felt the utter desperation of loneliness and self-loathing the last six years had wrought on my soul. It all seemed so clear to me. This place had inspired my grandma to paint and brought love and peace to many. It now tried to ease the troubled pain and hurt that consumed me. I could hear the wind whisper through the branches above me. The familiar sounds of life within the meadow softened the cacophony of voices, within my head, threatening to destroy me with their preaching of loss and misery.

My
head ached with too many emotions
, and I
rubbed
my eyes with the
palms
of my
hands
. I still shook with the chills of sorrow. Through painfully-swollen eyes I looked out over the hill and towards the town in the distance. Somewhere down there was a lost love, a potential happiness I had traded for a life of insecurity and loneliness. If God would somehow find me worthy, grant me a second chance, I would give my life to being a better man. I was hoping I could somehow make my way on to that all-important list, to be given a last opportunity to put right what I had once allowed to go so terribly wrong. I sat there for a while longer, trying to harness the strength I would need to do what I had come to do, gaze upon my past.

In the spring of nineteen ninety-nine, Allison and I had not been able to stop the growing waves of love’s passion, as we first kissed and then hungrily sought the heat of each other’s bodies. Our clothes gave way to bare skin, and the scents of our passion mixed with the intoxicating aromas of the spring wildflowers and warmed earth. Words didn’t need to be spoken as our hands gently caressed and touched each other, sending currents of electricity and anticipation streaming throughout each of our bodies. Our minds traveled to the place where ecstasy resides and souls join together, leaving forever, their intimate traces upon one another. With the symphony of the insects and the serenade of the birds, we joined together, sharing the ultimate gift of giving of one’s self to another person. In the shadows of the tree, we held each other and watched as the sunlight above us danced from leaf to leaf in the cooling springtime breeze. It was the moment when lovers realize the bliss of pure connection. It was, and forever will be, that one, undeniable feeling of total completeness, which becomes engrained within the senses of the body and stored within the mind
forever.

I relived every moment and sensation of that day as I sat with my back to the tree. The pangs of need in my heart were just as much alive today as they had been on a magical day ages ago. With a sigh of what could have been, I rose up on my knees and then climbed to my feet, using the tree to steady myself. The sun was beginning to slowly dip behind the trees, cresting the top of the hill. I could still see clearly enough, but the shadows were taking on more depth and consistency. I reached down and picked up the flashlight from the ground where I had dropped it near my feet. Turning it on, I ducked under the largest of the branches, stretching out from the base of the tree. On the other side of the great oak, now hidden in the dark and out of the reach of the fading light, lay the connected history of the Owens men.

Chapter 7

My life seemed to be a blur, the past and present collapsing on top of each other. Sitting in the hospital room, holding on to my grandfather’s motionless hand, my memories contributed to the insane rollercoaster of emotions I was riding. In my youth, I had found ways to shelter and hide away the hurt and misgivings, which had become a part of my life. Now I faced a future without certainty, and it was rapidly unraveling before my eyes. Not that anyone ever really knows what will happen to him or where he will end up, but I felt like I was being tossed around on a ship in a violent storm, hanging on for dear life and praying for steady ground. When you lose your cornerstone of stability, you can’t help but feel the currents of forced change pulling at the very core, unwinding it like thread from a spool. This is how I felt, as I looked down into the serene face of my Grandfather. No longer did I have an anchor to stop me from drifting away, for that was what my life had been doing the last six years, drifting along with the currents and finding neither salvation nor direction. The only measure of certainty I once could count on had been my grandparents. They were my anchor rope. Now they were both gone, and gone with them were all hopes of securing my life against the pull of the endless currents.

Under my breath and with all of my heart, I asked God to right my ship. I was willing to be guided once more by the signs I had ignored for so long. If I could be granted one chance, I would attempt to heal the wounds of my past so I could find my way back to feeling human again. Cleansing tears began to fill my eyes and make their way down my cheeks. I stood up on trembling legs, uncertain if they could sustain my weight. I was too afraid to let go of Grandpa Jake’s hand. His once rugged hand, now softened by time, exemplified the character of the man for me. It contained all the strength he had given me and all of the love he had shown me. I clung to his hand and desperately tried to draw every last bit of hope from it. Grandpa Jake could steady me in times of trouble, and I needed his faith and guidance more today than I ever did in the past.

Before the doctor had left me alone, he made sure Grandpa Jake’s eyes were closed. It didn’t matter to me; I could still see his bright, blue eyes, full of life in my mind. His eyes were sparkling as they had always done, conveying the years of laughter and knowledge he’d acquired and shared. It was this image I held tightly to. With a final, gentle squeeze, I tenderly laid my grandfather’s hand on his chest. Using both of my arms to steady myself, I bent over Grandpa Jake so I could kiss him goodbye. What I wouldn’t have given for one final hug and laugh from him, one more endearing phrase of encouragement. He always seemed to know when I needed his help and he gave it at just the right time. As I kissed his forehead, the overflowing, warm tears of my love for him dropped from my eyes and fell on his face. Slowly, the fallen tears began an unbearable trek, first shimmering in the fluorescent glow of the hospital room lights, they caressed his cheek and then un-joyously slid past his ear, falling silently on the pillow.

It took all the strength I had inside to stop myself from collapsing and succumbing to a new wave of grief. In the deepest recesses of my heart and mind, I imagined the tears were those of my beloved grandfather. The angels’ enlightening grace had allowed Grandpa to shed his own tears, one last time. Maybe it was a final testament to the turbulence within my soul. It could not be perceived as anything other than a sign, meant for me alone. Whether generated in my mind or Heaven-guided, I was filled with an inherent understanding. It was time for me to listen to my heart once more.

When the door to Grandpa Jake’s hospital room opened and Aunt Marcie came in, I had just finished saying my last goodbyes to Grandpa. In a barely audible and emotionally strained voice, I sent my grandpa on his way, “I love you, old man, and I’m going to miss you horribly.” I felt Aunt Marcie’s hand lightly caress my back and come to rest on my shoulder. Turning toward her, I fell into her embrace, allowing myself release from all the pent up emotions that had been building to a climax within me.