Shoes Under the Geraniums

Shoes Under the Geraniums

Tracy Stegall

The deafening buzz of the locusts engulfed the humid Kansas afternoon. Stepping onto the long, thin, porch, the thick air enveloped me. I was seven-maybe eight when I first told my grandmother, "It's like the air has already been breathed for me." She giggled with delight and the phrase stuck. And now, 24 years later, I thought the same thing. The air had already been breathed� maybe that was why I wasn't breathing. Couldn't breathe. Wouldn't let myself breathe.

"Be here," I thought. Be right here with these geraniums� planted perfectly� they were Nanny's favorites. Bright red-planted every year. I wondered about last week. Did she see them as a red blur on her way to the bathroom? Was her vision still good enough for her to make out the petals� or did these plants, her loves, morph into amorphous red blobs hanging from the rafters of the covered porch? And the hooks the pots were on-did Papa put those hooks in 20 years ago before he died? And were these flowers part of her memory as she had the stroke, alone, there on the pink 1950's tile? Shit. Here in the now with the geraniums I took in one little breath and my tears came. Tears like the Kansas rains-the rains that cleanse and cool and bring worms and puddles and life and hope.

Letting the wave wash over me, I smiled watching Justin. The locust shells fascinated my cousin's son. Just like a snake, locusts shed their old shell after they've grown a new one. These remnants remain stuck to the tree branches and look, for all intents and purposes, like locusts. Upon closer examination, they're hollow and can be picked gently off the tree. My mom had shown him this in the morning before Nanny's funeral. And now-seven-year-old Justin was on a quest and was gathering an army of supporters to gather his army of locust bodies.

On the porch, I gathered myself together. He was counting-his goal was 100 and he was at 12. "Will you help?" he asked. I took off my heels and there in my panty hose and funeral black dress in the deep summer Kansas heat I helped. We picked those locust shells off trees, putting them in a jar. I held him up so that he could reach the higher branches. We ran around back to the weeping willow, the cherry tree, the yard that held memories of my childhood in its blue grass cells. I was 8 years old again-- there with Justin-- with Justin picking locust shells. We gathered 100� 150� my mom joined us when Justin was standing on my shoulders reaching for number 172. "Would you come and refill the cookies please?" This chore-- assigned to me for the reception. I wanted to stay in the yard� swing from the trees of my childhood summers, pick the fruit for Nanny's pies-- I wanted to play-- wanted to stay. But instead I left the yard-- left my youth-- left Justin there counting. Back on the porch I found my shoes under the geraniums and went inside.