Once in a while I cannot hold back the accumulated tears torn from my eyes by every little thing that life sends crashing into my fragile orbit.
A mother visits the shop with her two daughters. She selects a digital depiction of hummingbirds from a back display and sets it on the counter. It reminds me of my daughter Gianni, she tells me. I see the shine in her eyes that I know comes from the peculiar mixture of joy and sorrow. She died in December, but she remains with us. She touches a sterling butterfly on a chain at her throat. The girls standing next to her reach for the necklaces which they, too, wear in honor of the one present only in their hearts. Every time I see a hummingbird, I think she is with me, the woman softly tells me.
I suppress a sob, smiling at the memories they share of the precious soul.
A few minutes after they leave, three folks sit on the bench outside my store. I lean over and adjust the music which plays on the speaker beside where they tarry. I suppose that I’m still thinking of the little girl, because I play Beth Nielsen Chapman’s Sand and Water, a haunting tribute to her deceased husband. When the trio enters the store, they ask about the music. They wander among the art and handcrafts in our little collective and leave a note on our Gratitude Wall. We trade stories. Just before they go, one of them spies my book on its small shelf by the door. He stands reading from pages over which I spent many hours agonizing, selecting each essay from the ten years of accumulated scribblings.
He buys the book and I inscribe it to him. He turns a page and reads a sentence outloud for his companions. I remember writing those words; I remember everything. The sound of another’s voice speaking what I composed almost overwhelms me.
My cell phone rings; and the three wave goodbye as I answer my son’s call. He checks on me most days, and when I’m in the shop, he phones to learn the quote of the day. I read it to him: “I have nature, and art, and poetry. If that is not enough, what is enough?” He asks to whom it is attributed. I tell him, Vincent Van Gogh. While we are talking, the man who bought by book stands outside, reading from it. As I watch he slips back into the shop and offers me a hug. I receive it without hesitation.
We have a tradition at my shop of taking photos of our customers with their purchases. We post them on our social media pages and tag the artists. The three of them let me take their photo but they say, softly, that they would rather not be on Facebook. I promise; and I have kept that promise. But I share their picture here, in my world, where only you and I and God can see them.
They deserve that much.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
