Flowers in Winter

I pull into the driveway and step out into the night.

The lights are bright.

The air is cold.

All around me, reflections of red and white.

A few hours ago my 20-year old son Charlie climbed atop a ladder, looping strands around lampposts. It’s what he does when life feels touch and go. He hangs Christmas lights.

A few hours before that, he sat in a hospital room. We couldn’t get him to leave.

Hours upon hours.

That is what a day like this feels like.

Standing here in the driveway, I smell flowers.

I look around. Is there a tree, a shrub, that could be blooming in winter?

Instantly, I recognize the scent.

I think of her, stirring sauce at the stove.

Singing toddlers to sleep.

Folding yards of fabric before a sewing machine.

My sons, carrying her casket into the church on a warm summer day.

My mother-in-law.

She is here.

But why?

Perhaps she told him what we’ve been telling him. That it’s okay to let go, to pick up where he left off just a few days ago, on a college campus full of baseball, of friends, of life.

My son Charlie.

Perhaps she convinced him he has done enough.

Hours ago, he leaned over the bed, and for what may be the last time, hugged his beloved grandfather goodbye.

Into the room, he whispered.

“Tell Grandma I say hello.”

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