The Meadow

The truth

  My mother used to tell me of a place she would go when she wanted to get away. She’d tell me of its beauty, and of the quietness. I remember how she would describe it. She said there was a waterfall and there were rocks that would sparkle in the sun on the cliff. She told me they were all different colors. And there was a medium sized pond the water fell into it was surrounded by a meadow. There were daises, and orchids, impatiens, chrysanthemums, bluebonnets, violets, and she recalled a wandering Jew growing in the shade beneath a willow tree. 

                Right next to the pond there was a rock that she would sit on while she watched the waterfall. “It was like all my troubles were washed away by the water. As if the pond was a pool of my worries. I could go there full of stress and leave stress free.” She said once.

                In the middle of the meadow off to the side there was a weeping willow. On hot summer days she recalled sitting under it writing as I’m doing now. She drew the whole meadow for me once because I’d asked her to. I felt somehow connected to it. The drawing she handed me was beautiful. She’d always been a good artiest but it was like home. She watched me as I stared at it for hours. Then as I folded the picture up and put it in my pocket for safe keeping she spoke. “You feel it don’t you? The connection. He told me this would happen. He warned me.

                “Yes mother. I feel it. Who told you?” I asked confused.

“Your father’s brother.”

“But you said you didn’t know anyone related to dad.” I said perplexed starting to get upset.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She replied close to tears, “I only did it to protect you. I didn’t want you trying to find him and the legend coming true.” I wanted to be mad at her but as she started to tell the story of meeting my dad and my conception as well as my birth I couldn’t find it in myself.

She told me of a young woman who was sheltered her whole life. She went to the market one day and witnessed a murder. This, however, was only the first of many events that made her grow up. As the man began to fall blood gushing from the bullet wound on his chest, staining his white shirt; she took off running, afraid and shocked.

She ran for a few miles and then fell face first into a bed of flowers. Then she cried her eyes out. After the tears stopped flowing and had dried she finally sat up and looked around. She was in a meadow, or what she now calls The Meadow. She investigated it, and as the sun began to fall she slowly began to make her way home.

The next day she went back, after finishing her chores and sat on the rock, watching the waterfall. She sat there for hours. She said she barely noticed the sun going down. She talked about a feeling of peace when she went home and the smile on her face told me that she’d been happy then. Of course she’d been happy since but not that happy.

She said she went there every day for a week and there was no sign of anyone. On the eighth day though there was a young man sitting on the rock. She started to turn around and go home, but instead went to the willow tree instead. She wrote she said for about an hour that night before she noticed she wasn’t alone under the branches.

Glancing up, she looked at the young man from the rock. Then quickly looked down and went back to writing. He cleared his throat and she looked up again. She described his Emerald green eyes, strong angled jaw, and jet black hair. He was about six foot; two, towering over her even when she was standing. As she described him, her eyes went misty, glazing over with her love for him. There was no doubt in my mind he was the love of her life.

That look alone prevented me from being mad. I’d seen that look too many times, when I looked in the mirror and thought about my boyfriend. It made me wonder what happened. What made her leave? Why she raised me on her own?