I know I have an agenda to keep and errands to run, but when I find myself at this end of town, the temptation to detour to my grandmother’s house is often too strong to resist. She recently relocated here, and depending on where I’m headed I drive right by the turn-off. Sometimes I make the left, errands be damned.

She resides in a small, wooden dwelling; tiny, to be honest, but sufficient for her needs. Her house is on the edge of a park, with a beautiful and immaculately kept lawn. A landscaper is paid to take care of such things, and he does a lovely job. He doesn’t keep a flower garden, though, so I try to take her fresh flowers from time to time. This past Christmas I brought her a poinsettia in beautiful two-toned red and pink and it really brightened the place up. Red is her favorite color, so I couldn’t resist.

When it’s warm outside I stretch out on the soft grass and tell her all my joys and troubles. She listens so well, so absolutely, I admit the conversation can be a bit one-sided. But then she’ll quietly offer me some words of comfort or advice, and although it’s always something she’s patiently told me before, sometimes I just need to hear it again.

My love for her is uncomplicated, unlike so many other relationships. We have never quarreled or struggled for power. She has always let me be while deftly exemplifying who I should want to be, embracing me unconditionally all the while.

She has always been my safe harbor. The one whom the storm never touches.

The day she moved into her new house it was raining. The whole family came together for the journey. Aunts and cousins I hadn’t seen in years, all united by our love for her, surrounded her on the big day. Friends of the family, the truest of friends who are always present when there is important work to be done, came to support us during the move.

We journeyed to her new home, knowing it would be the last move she would ever make.

It was hard to leave her at the end of the day, once family and friends had dispersed. I worried she would be lonely there. But we brought her roses and gorgeous sprays of colorful flowers and in the coming days I visited her nearly every day. Slowly, over the next few weeks, she settled in.

The landscaper is skilled and persistent, and has at last triumphed in his work. The grass has overtaken the earthen mound where we laid my grandmother to rest, knitting her plot back into the quilt comprised of all the others. The perfect lawn is unbroken once again, trying to convince me that no scar ever marked the earth there, but I know differently. The earth cried the day we cut into her and laid my grandmother inside.

I know she does not truly reside there, but in heaven with the Glorious Father she so faithfully adored. But yet I find comfort in visiting the place I know her to physically be; the place reserved for quiet contemplations and remembrances. It is a peaceful, beautiful place. And so, on occasion, I take the detour, set my errands aside, and stop by my grandmother’s house with fresh flowers and tell her everything she’s missed since she moved away.

Experience the world of 1908 and get a glimpse of Victorian death customs in my novel, The Persistence of Vision, available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle.

Read more at LisaGery.com