I was editing, I could look at them with an objective eye, not letting my heart get too involved. But seeing them here, in this house, through Mama Louise’s eyes, is something I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle right now.
“Sure, dear. Of course. Sit down and let me get you some watermelon fresca. It’s Shay’s recipe, sells out every time she makes a batch.”
You can’t say no to Mama Louise. Or at least I can’t. So I find myself sinking into a chair at the small kitchen table as she grabs two glasses and fills them with pink liquid from a jug in the refrigerator.
She sits down beside me and takes a healthy drink, sighing loudly, “Ahh, that’s good stuff. Been out in the barn this morning helping Luke muck out stalls, so this hits the spot.”
Small talk. Bless this amazing woman, she’s letting me hide the way I want to.
“I’m sure he appreciated the help.”
“Stubborn men always do, even though they’re not good at telling you so.” For some reason, I get the feeling she’s talking about Unc more than about Luke. “Though Luke isn’t my most stubborn boy, by far.”
I smile, trying to decide which Bennett man she’s talking about. Or Tannen, I guess. She doesn’t seem to differentiate. They’re all her kids to care for, even if they’re six-foot-plus tall, wide as a doorway men who can handle themselves just fine. They’re still her boys.
“Love them all, each and every one, I do,” she murmurs around another sip. I get the feeling she’s dancing me the direction she wants to go, taking this conversation to a destination she wants regardless of whether I want to discuss it or not.
I hum in agreement, not fighting her resolve. Get this over with, Mama Louise. Yell at me, tell me how disappointed you are, whatever it is . . . rip the Band-Aid off so I can leave and lick my fresh wounds again.
“You know the funny thing about love?”
I don’t respond, thinking there’s not a single thing funny about love right now. It’s the highest high and the lowest low, all wrapped up in one big shredded T-shirt bow.
“People think it’s something you feel, an emotion. A noun. Like you love football or your husband or pepperoni pizza.”
How does she know I love pepperoni pizza? Oh, she’s not talking about me, specifically. Or is she? She does know everything.
When I don’t respond, she speaks again. “It’s not. Or at least, it’s not only that. Love is something you do. A verb. It’s in every action, reaction. My husband, John, worked this land every single day to make a life for us. That was love—every head of cattle he bought and sold, every fence he fixed, every bead of sweat he earned through his dedication was a love note to me, to our boys. In return, every meal I made, every load of his dirty clothes I washed, and every sunrise I saw after hours of being up to get the day started was my love note to him. There were other ways we loved each other too. But make no mistake, the day in, day out of love was in the action, the verb of doing something for each other, to take care of one another. We were in this thing called life together. I still write those notes to him, making meals for our family, taking care of his land and cattle, watering that damn tree out front because I can’t bear to ever see it wither and don’t trust the rain enough to take care of it the way I will.”
Mama Louise’s blue eyes are bright with unshed tears as she glances toward the front of the house. There is a tree out front, but I didn’t realize it had any special meaning for her. I even took a picture of its branches filled with green leaves with pockets of blue sky peeking through. It’s in that box on the table. It’d seemed like a pretty shot, and if I’d posted it to my blog, I would’ve added something witty about a seed growing tall and mighty. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad that shot is just for Mama Louise and that it’ll mean something to her.
“It sounds like John was a great man, a great husband,” I say tentatively. I still feel like we’re dancing, but I can’t see the trail she’s leading me down.