The air, obviously different this morning, I walked as quietly as possible thinking my aunt was still sleeping.
The back door was open wide and I saw her nowhere. The laundry room, slightly lit by the light marking the dryer’s cycle and a shifting noise was ever faint.
I decided it must be a load of towels. I turned to start the coffee, turned back and there she was. Smiling and nodding at me, her hair all messy and loose and her hands already working, determined and sure.
“Well, hey.” she said, “I’ve gotten behind on my laundry.”
She smiled and added “get you some coffee” and so, I did.
I didn’t tell her I’d been looking for her, that I’d gone out on the patio and thought I might find her watering or working already in her yard.
I didn’t tell her how the sweetest aroma I’ve ever known caused me to stand still, surveying the impatiens, the begonia, the ferns, turning and tilting and trying to find the mysterious source.
We sat with our coffee and fig newtons and we caught up quietly.
And then I asked her what the scent was that captured me, the one so enveloping.
She asked me if I’d noticed that all the blooms are reaching out wider, brighter, more fully. They know the season’s about to change, she informed.
Then she told me that it was the ginger lilies who sent the morning scent my way.
“Must’ve been the slight breeze this morning, it’ll bring ’em right up to the porch.”
I looked over the wide green carpet of her sloping yard, way past the little house my grandma lived before and thought I’d never have figured it out had she not told me, the massive lilies, so far in the swampy distance, bordering the woods.
“Oh, yeah.” she added as we walked down to see, “these lilies live long, they’re strong, they keep holding on.”
Then we plundered around and she showed us the elephant ears she’d discovered and she took us around back to the tiny purple blooms running wild and free.
I thought about her love, her faith, her quiet hope and I watched her as we shared a current stressful worry or two.
She nodded again, folded her hands to pray and with no words or a prayer at all, we heard.
“Prayer and patience…”
and hope now too, I know she always hopes.
I want a wide and full hope like hers in my changing seasons, all stored up for now, being so very confident there will always be more.