The name rolled off his tongue like quick silver. My non-reader, my imaginative, dyslexic child Joseph; he immediately responded when I asked what her name should be. Sarah Elizabeth Gramble. He was only about 8 years old.
She was a new piece of statuary at a local garden center. Heavy as lead. The real deal. I was given a handful of money for Mother’s Day and told to go get her. Children in tow, I went and looked and dreamed of my own garden and what it could be some day, and I came home with Sarah Elizabeth Gramble.
Sarah Elizabeth Gramble is gone now. I did not part with her easily, and she did not go cheap. But she did not belong in an apartment. I sold her for more than what I paid, and I made sure she went to a woman who loved her garden. She was carried with care to the woman’s car, to a new home, to a new garden. It hurt.
Sarah Elizabeth Gramble, cold as stone, cold as what she is, she saw my blood, sweat and tears over the course of more than a decade. She watched silently as I tried with every fiber of my being to push my life out into every little corner of a happy box it should have filled. She saw my love. She saw my work. She saw my broken spirit when I had been dealt with harshly.
It is a gut-wrenching, heartbreaking thing when you know it will never be. When you have cried and prayed until your eyes burn. When you have put on a happy face and told the knot in your stomach to be quiet; the knot that is evidence of the sick realization that what you actually live and what you want to live don’t fit together.
Sarah watched the bees pollinate. The first hint of green to push through the ground after winter; she was there. She has worn a hat of soft snow. She has held an apron full of petals of all kinds and colors. She stood across the way, looking at me as I gulped tea after hours of heavy garden work. She stood there, looking at me on days when I sat on the front steps and hurt from loneliness and sorrow. Wherever you are, Sarah Elizabeth Gramble, I sure miss you.