Spring with Marjorie.

The breeze is refreshing as it curls it's fingers through my hair and lets loose it's breath upon my neck. The sun is warm and invigorating against my face and I'm surprised to discover I missed it during the long winter months. I close my eyes and toss my head backwards and let all the scents of spring blanket me with soothing recollections. Gossamer thin the laughter from my children, who play free and uninhibited in the yard, teases a long lost memory from a past that is bittersweet.

I think I must be eight years old. My grandmother's hand wrapped tightly around my own is as smooth and soft as a petal from a rose. She speaks with a slight English accent and points out all the beauty in the world as we slowly travel the paths in Beacon Hill Park. She hands me a few bread crusts and I tear them up for the ducks. I'm in awe of every wonder she brings to my attention, and without my consent I fall head over heals for Spring.

This day is ours and ours alone, a rarity shared together but tinged with the slightest hint of guilt because fairness seeks to even the odds...my brothers, you see, love her just as much as I...

She states without hesitation, however, that I'm special - the first born grandchild - and what I hear is love. Love that's deep and unconditional - something I craved desperately. Time with her was never enough, it was always too short and I cried every time I had to leave her. She created 16 years of memories with me...if only the last ones hadn't been so hard...

In a moment of despair, when her lovely existence had been in winter too long, she left me. Her life and all the beauty in it was murdered by her own hand - a bottle of empty pills found by her bedside - a note that asked for a reprieve from this place... words that demanded something better...something more. My confusion knew no bounds. The world she'd shown me as a little girl was too exquisite for such ugliness.

Spring lost its appeal...

I was angry at her for a long time. Angry that she could take herself away from me, angry that she would never see the person I'd become, angry that my children would not experience the soft touch of her hand as it grasped theirs... Time passed quickly and she faded into the background of memories I dare not touch. I did not ache for her, I did not long for her, I refused to remember her. She was lost.

When my son shattered my thoughts and asked me what I was doing - my body reclined upon the back deck, my mind a swirl in the past - I answered, "creating happy memories I hope". I joined them in the yard where airplane spins and dizzy laughter married with the scents of fresh cut grass and the slightest hint of rain. And like a flower sprouting from the thaw spring was mine again.

I was pleased to discover that she had come back to me... floating on a breeze that curled its fingers within my hair and let loose it's breath upon my neck...and while I recalled the moments I should have never forgotten, I did my best to create new moments my children would always remember.