There. That was the perfect place for the stone, amidst the grass and the rocks, on the edge of our flower garden. My wife had the stone carved for me before she died last winter. Clarisa had often commented that the rocks and crystals were her flowers. The woods, the yard and the house were filled with her collections; her gardens. She”d smile and laugh that silvery laugh of hers, when I prepared to clear the weeds from my flower and vegetable beds.
My work is so easy, she’d tell me, “I listen to a rock or crystal and place it where it wishes to go.”
Sometimes she’d go traipsing off into the woods across the road on a hot, summer day to place a stone beneath a tree and sit with it awhile enjoying the coolness supplied by the leaves. I’d be sweating and muttering in the garden. When Clarisa returned, refreshed, she’d say not a word, but skip into the house and return shortly with two cold beers.
She’d say to me, “Edgar, come sit among my rocks, beneath the maple tree, and cool off for a bit.”
The frosty glass of beer looked so inviting that I would immediately join her. As soon as I began to complain about all the hard work I was doing, she’d put a finger to my lips and whisper, “Shush. You do it because you love the results, so sit with me now and take in the beauty you help nature create.”
I have to admit that I could not understand her dedication to those lifeless, hard rocks, even when Clarissa became sick. She was having a particularly difficult day last summer, so I helped her to a lounge chair under the maple tree, while I stepped into my role of weeder.
I heard her weakly call my name, “Edgar, would you mind very much placing one or two of my stones and crystals in your gardens?”
I looked up, startled and surprised, until I realized she no longer had the strength to take her “flowers” and plant them as they requested.
“I would be honoured, “ I replied, keeping my voice strong, The flowers and vegetables would be honoured, as well.”
So it began. Clarisa’s gardens and mine became one. I swear that as I moved her precious pieces, amidst my plants that I could almost hear them whisper a thank you to me. When autumn arrived I placed them among the house plants, as well.
“There That’s the last one,” my love spoke as I planted her favourite crystal in the soil of the Boston fern. “They have all found a place they wish to be, for now” She looked at me, pointedly.
I thought to myself, “They will stay put where they are forever.”
Then I curled up beside my wife, holding her close, and listening to her breathe. Two days later she left her physical body.
Clarisa lives in the plants and gardens. I am always surrounded by her presence. I have begun to move a few of the crystals to different places. When I do, I hear her voice in my ear, laughing, “I knew that you would hear them.”
Story Weaver 