Madeline’s Peony

Her name was Madeline. She was blind and deaf and old, and she lived next door. Alone. We tried to bring her cookies when we moved in but she didn’t know we waited awkwardly on her slanted front porch.

I never got to meet Madeline because she fell soon after and was brought to a convalescent home.

I only know her house. 

It waits noiselessly as time peels away all grace. Its chapped red back door falters at the top of rugged wooden steps. Its windows peer sleepily to my own through glass cracked and taped. Its paint is scruffy, its roof bedraggled. Only one small light faintly burns somewhere inside while the rest of the house lingers in damp darkness.

Madeline’s house is like an old lady that few see or remember. Like Madeline.

But this morning I suddenly do. As I walk by I see treasure hidden in the layers of overgrown bush between our yards. A bright fuchsia peony, reflecting the June morning sun.

I look at that peony and see beauty defying what is old. It hints at what has been and hopes for what can be. If someone cared.

And I think of my friends who are old, and precious to me. How even when their outsides are worn they have great value. They are like hidden peonies to me—bursts of blessing.

I think of my friend June whom I see at the track at 5:45 on Tuesday mornings, walking brisk laps in her favorite yellow sweatshirt. June is there every weekday, but I don’t have her energy to go that often. She needs it, to keep up with her great-grandchildren. I join her for a couple of laps and we talk easily. She brings me joy, like the peony.

I think of my friend Carol whose smile is wide and her eyes bright as she greets me from her pew on Sunday mornings. The energy in her voice belies the aches in her joints. Her back carries the toll of years of cooking for so many who needed a homegrown meal. Yet despite the pain she crawls around her garden, keeping it beautiful for all who drive by her corner.

I cherish these friends. I want to be like them when I grow old. I see past their peeling paint to the flowers that still blossom there. They have time to talk and wisdom and a smile to share.

Then I think of Marcia who lives across the street from Madeline’s house. Just shy of 100, she totters through my front door at our neighborhood Christmas party. But I haven’t really taken time to look for the peonies in her life. I wonder how, and when, and why I haven’t.

And I’m back to standing behind Madeline’s house, looking at her lone peony, and wondering who else notices it. Who else cherishes it like I do.

And hoping that the next generation will take time to notice peonies in my yard when my house is old, and find wisdom in my words when my own paint is scruffy and my steps are rugged.

While I wait, I think I’ll phone Marcia.

Hope and Be.Longing