I’m visiting my old stomping grounds this weekend, in southeast Iowa. It’s hot, steamy, and there’s “corn” as far as the eye can see. I think of Rose even more while I’m here. The rolling bucolic hills filled with contented cattle– the river that winds its way through the green lush countryside…it all, brings back memories of a simpler, quieter time.
I am staying where Rose spent most of her married life–now my sister’s place. The large garden is now a smooth, mowed lawn with trees as it’s produce. There’s a swimming pool where the chicken house once stood, and the chatter and laughter of her great-grandchildren pierce the humid summer air.
It’s a pleasant sight, but I miss the mom and grandmother who used to watch “the dividends of old age,” as she often referred to her offspring and their children.
I feel her presence in every room. Every window is a picture–framed in it, our history. Sitting on the front porch where the family often gathered because it caught the best summer breeze, her spirit and unfaltering love abide.Rose lives in my heart!