July 4, 2014—Arden, Lauren, and Lolly “Hurry! The show’s starting!” my mother yells from the yard.
I peek off the screened porch, and—for a moment—all I can see are fireflies blinking, briefly illuminating the steppingstone path, the dock, and the still waters of Lost Land Lake in the twilight.
But then … BOOM!
An explosion of colorful fireworks suddenly lights the skies, as if God has plucked out His own crayon box and set to work on coloring the heavens.
I can see my mom standing there just like a kid, slack-jawed, looking up, her hands on her heart. She is barefoot, a jacket wrapped around her waist, her old body perched on a single steppingstone, her red wig mimicking the flaming trail of the fireworks as they fall toward the lake.
This is her night, I say to the old cabin.
Beyond the fireworks, I can see so many changes lingering on the horizon. Come September, the air will turn chilly, and Lauren will be attending art school full time and staying here. Her father has even offered to help us more.
He is happy now, I am happy now, and that has made us kinder, more generous.
We are all happy now. Happiness, I’ve learned, is not only quite magical, but also contagious.
Yes, my mother requires more help, but she is holding her own right now, and Jake comes every other day. He adores her. He loves me.
I have to say it again to myself: He loves me.
“Hurry!” I yell into the cabin.
I hear Lauren’s charm bracelet first, followed by the squeaks of the wood floor. A large circle of light temporarily blinds me.
“Think we’ll need this?” Lauren asks.
My eyes adjust to see she is holding an old flashlight, held together by decades of masking tape. Behind Lauren, I can see her portrait of us hanging on a log wall.
“No,” I say, nodding toward the blinking fireflies and fireworks outside. “There’s enough light.”
“Got it?” Lauren whispers.
“Yep,” I say, touching the pocket of my hoodie.
The screen door bangs shut, and Lauren and I join my mother. Slowly, we three make our way to the end of the dock.
There are sounds of summer I now know will stay with me forever, no matter where I live or what I do, sounds that I will hear as I take my last breath. This summer orchestra will always remain in my ears: Bullfrogs moaning, cicadas chirping, hummingbirds zipping, fish jumping, dragonflies fluttering like violins, the mournful call of loons, the excited yells of children, and boat engines on the water.
But, mostly, I will forever hear the jangling of my mother’s charm bracelet.
It is getting very dark now, and I stumble on the edge of a steppingstone. I was wrong to have told Lauren to forego the flashlight.
My mother grabs my hand to steady me and our wrists collide, setting our charm bracelets jangling. Lauren giggles, and I can hear her grab her grandmother’s other hand.
“You’re wearing your bracelet again,” my mom says, her voice lifting.
My mother’s touch fills me not only with love but also with strength. It centers me. I now know that I have been blessed with the greatest gifts any woman could ever have. It just took a great teacher to show me.
My mother’s charms, I now know, aren’t just charms. They are pieces of her, hard won through love, loss, and life.
I take my fingers and begin to feel for her charms, trying to guess each one by touch rather than sight, wondering if her lessons have stuck.
“Your sewing machine!” I say.
“To a life bound by family,” my mom replies.
“Your kite!” I say.
“To a life filled with high-flying fun!”
“Hmmm,” I start, feeling the charm. “Oh! A puzzle piece.”
“To a life filled with friends who complete you!”
My fingers continue to move, rifling through her many charms until I no longer simply feel their silhouettes, I can actually feel their power vibrate.
“An ice cream cone, a mustard seed, and a loon!”
“To a life filled with a passion for what you do, to a life filled with faith, and to a life filled with a love that always calls you home!”
My mother slows and sighs. “You came home.”
“I never really left,” I say.
We take a seat at the end of the dock and dangle our feet in the water, the fireworks lighting up Lost Land Lake.
“Happy birthday, Mom! All those fireworks are for you! The world is celebrating your uniqueness!”
My mother squeezes my hand tightly. She knows that I have remembered her stories.
I pull a little box out of my hoodie pocket and my mother yelps in surprise, reaching out her hands for her present, just like a kid.
“No,” Lauren says, laughing. “You have to recite the poem first, Grandma.”
“I’m way too old for this.”
“You will never be too old for this,” I say. “Let’s do it together!”
This charm
Is to let you know
That every step along the way,
I have loved you so.
So each time you open up,
A little box from me
Remember that it really all
Began with You and Me.
“That’s right,” I say. “Now, here you go.”