We sit on the balcony each evening watching the clouds. The Creator paints and creates as we watch and laugh and point out different animals and characters. We see the same things in the clouds, and the illustrations dancing across the sky above the mountains from this third floor view helps us wind down.
The balcony is my respite. No doubt done with the city and missing my feet on the earth but this little abode in the sky makes a lovely garden and peaceful place of thought and memory and gift. The bare root roses bought for dollars create a lovely garden in their brightly colored pots. The lavender flows over its spot and the Christmas poinsettia happily flaunts green. The transplanted comfrey and horseradish root strongly and the gooseberry, mini roses from the grocery store, the rosemary that barely made it though the homeless trek, the mint, curry, catnip, Jerusalem artichokes, and chives all spread out, face the sun, and thrive. The gay petunias beckon the hummingbird.
And the ones that have been with me the longest, the geraniums. They are large and lush and have survived everything along side us, from house to house, and shop to balcony, their colors rich in the summer heat. My great grandma would be impressed. She always had geraniums on the porch. I would pass them as I walked up the steps and to the door where I never knocked. And there she would be in her chair in the corner. Smiling, excited to see me, always wanting a kiss, her love for me so evident, her small frame hugging mine.
We would walk along her row of roses, always taller than me, their fragrance rich with summer and future memories of past. Her yard seemed so big. Her house quaint and tidy filled with relics and memory and life.
I went to a friend’s house for dinner last week. She lives in Washington park, one of the places I grew up. I rode my bike past her house a million times with my best friend, Susan, I bet. The beautiful old cottages and bungalows all similar in their individual layouts. I walked up the steps and noted the imaginary porch swing, knocked. And through the door I entered and did face the fireplace and mantle, the two small windows above it with beveled glass, the couch, the corner where Great grandma’s chair stood. The same floor plan as hers, situated just blocks away, and my breath was taken as my eyes moistened and there I stood eleven years old, gangly and tall in my all encompassing grandma’s house. I saw her stand and squeal that I was there. I saw us at the dining room table, plants behind us lining the south window, drinking sweet iced tea and enjoying hours of rummy, where I obtained my title of rummy queen.
How she would be thrilled with my roses and geraniums. Now we sit watching a bear emerge from the depths of the sky and an old eagle flying by, our sights set on getting to a homestead respite of our own. Soon. Our feet firmly on the soil of earth and our spirits restored to freedom and homestead. We breathe in the fumes of the city streets and post rain scent. And look upon the roses and geraniums and flowers that Mother Earth has lent.