"Hello, Miss Emma," the
children taunt as they ride by on their bicycles. "I like
your hat," one of them says as he reaches out to touch the azaleas
growing along the front of my house.
"Be careful," I shout
back at them hearing my old lady voice crackle like that of a Halloween
witch. I know they're making fun of me. Why shouldn't
they? I'm just an old lady in a faded dress and a floppy hat
tending to her flowers.
The
children, what do they know? What do they care? They're as
ripe and as full of hope as spring tulips about to open. I'm like
the daffodil stems left after the sunny flower is long gone, littering
the garden.
But I flowered once. I had
my time. I danced in the wind and the young men fancied after me
like butterflies to violets. I gave my sweetness to them and
brought them joy. Now I offer only faint memories of past summers.
Autumn offers one last chance, one
final burst of beauty before the long sleep of winter. I want to
shout, like the Crepe Myrtle turning bright yellow in fall:
"I'm still here! Look at me! Don't forget
me!"
I want to do something
grand. Something extraordinary. I long to rip off my old
lady clothes and dance naked in the sun singing songs of love. I
want to make a final impression.
But how? I'm an old lady in
a faded dress and floppy hat tending to her flowers. My time has
passed like the pale, spent blooms of the hydrangea. I had my
chance. But I was so taken by my own beauty, I never learned to
complement the other flowers. Only to dominate them. Like a rose
in full bloom, I thought I'd last forever. With my sweet scent and
my perfect blossom, I thought I'd always be the focus of the garden,
always attract the eye of anyone wandering my way.
Now I'm alone, an old lady in a
faded dress and a floppy hat tending to her flowers.
I hear the neighbors talk:
"It's so sad watching her," they say. "Alone in
that big house. At least she has the garden, her flowers."
"But what will she do this
winter?" they ask. 
What will I do, indeed? When
the winds from the North blow cold and the ground freezes solid, will I
cover myself in a bed of down like the ones I prepare of leaves and
straw for the tender coreopsis and coral bells? Will I again
arise, like the crocuses, as the sun thaws the earth to begin the cycle
once more? Or will I remain in my downy bed forever to be replaced
by other, more hardy blooms?
I watch two young lovers walk by,
holding hands and smiling as they share secrets. I nod to them,
but they see only each other. I snip a rose about to open and
offer it to the young woman. She accepts my gift graciously.
"Thank you," she
says. "It's so beautiful."
"Watch the thorns,
dear," I warn her as I step aside.
After teaching writing and
literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to
follow his own advice. Some of his recent stories have appeared
in Flashquake, Scrivener's Pen, Fiction Warehouse, Laughter Loaf
and The Phone Book. In 2002, he was nominated for a
Pushcart Prize. He lives in Atlanta with his wife.
Woman in the Garden
by Nightingale and Old Chair by John Singer Sargent are available at Art.com
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