© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016
I love nature. I love dawn and dusk, and the twilight times. I love fanciful stories, myths, and fables. I love the magic of that wonderful place where they all meet-childhood. Whether it is the dew drops of a magical early autumn morning, a blanket of snow enshrouded in the darkening purple shadows of whispering winter pines, the sound of freshly green blades of grass singing in the after math of a spring rain, or twilight shadows of a summer evening giving refuge to the scurrying of fairies with lightning bug lanterns, playing hide and go seek with the moon, I love it all. It is a gift, instilled in me, from my mother. But like fairy dust, in a blink of an eye, it can be gone all too soon.
But, in those rare magic moments-of slivers of moon and glistening of snail trails, of quiet star mornings in winter tales, I reach for a small piece of it, a small piece of my mother, to hold close to me, always.
Much realer than real,
Magic of childhood pretend
Too soon, comes to end.
Girl with Dog at Lily Pond
© Jo Hewitt
© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2012
The SSB Drever and I were walking around Jewel Square and the lovely houses in the Golden Heights area. I am still amazed to find roses blooming in October in this area. Even with the strange climate patterns and events, even though the past couple years haven’t seen much frost until November or December, with each rose I see, I think “Will this be the last rose of summer?”
That song-“The Last Rose of Summer” always make me think of my mother. Years, so many years ago, when I was given the luxury of piano lessons for 2-3 years, my mother whose limited lessons had been short of half a century before mine, played for me one of her favorite songs-“The Last Rose of Summer”.
The last rose of summer and perhaps the last summer for the rose. My mother is 96 and doing well for her age. But signs of the process of transition from this realm to the next have begun. Of course it is a process that could take years or sometimes only months or less. There are physical changes and behavioral changes.
None of us know which will be the last month, the last year, the last summer. As I walk through dappled sun and shade, as I walk through the paradox of warmth of the sun and the coolness of a changing wind, I don’t know. I dont’ know which rose will be the last rose of summer and I don’t know which will be the last summer. And as winter grows nearer, I am mindful of each one I encounter. And for the ones growing in my garden, I cut them and bring them in, bring the fragrance close to me. But I always leave one or two with the hope that the season will be a little longer, and the winds of time, my time, will be scented with roses-a little longer.
The Last Rose of Summer
Last Rose of Summer-music
Last Rose of Summer-music
Petals fall, whisper-music
Spirit bridge calls me