by Valarie Vine
DYLAN’S CIRCLE OF PALMS
by
Valarie M. Vine
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Valarie M. Vine
Dylan’s Circle of Palms
Copyright 2011 by Valarie M. Vine
Cover credit: Katrina Joyner
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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The idea came to Dylan in a fitfull dream filled with images of swaying palm trees. In the dream, a red kite that had been unhappily tethered to the leaves of one of the palm trees finally broke free and ascended joyfully into the sky. He awoke and knew what he had to do. He would bicycle around the Circle of Palms at the beachside park 88 times in memory of his beloved grandmother. He knew it would take a long time. It was a blustery day as he arrived at the grove of palms that symmetrically encircled the large expanse of grass, barbeques, and children’s play area. He looked upward at the tops of the palm trees as they rustled about with great animation as if telling a grand story to each other, perhaps sharing the mystery of life. The cold wind in his face felt good. He felt alive. After placing a small bouquet of multi-colored daisies in the fiberous bands that encircled his “grandmother’s palm”, he adjusted his helmet, pulled his bicycle gloves up just a bit on each hand and surveyed the familiar acreage. He straddled his bike, turning first to look toward the ocean, frothy with whitecaps, visible through the little mountains of sand dunes that dotted the shoreline. The dunes fell away to mounds of ice plant and wildflowers where little critters could sometimes be seen scampering to and fro. Concrete paths that invited walkers, cyclists, buggy riders, and runners encircled the core of the park, but always a visitor’s eyes looked upward to the stately legion of palm trees. He remembered his first view of the palm trees ten years earlier when his grandmother walked him around the park for the first time.
•
“Dylan, look at all the beautiful palm trees!” exclaimed his grandmother. “Do you want to see yours?”
“Mine?,” asked the six year old quizzically. “Do I own it?”
“His grandmother laughed. “No, dear boy, it is just yours for this year. Next year, when you’re seven, you’ll move along to the next palm tree. I’ll show you my palm tree, clear on the other side of the park.”
“Why is your palm tree so far away from mine?,” Dylan asked with a mixture of frustration and disappointment. He put his right hand above his eyes to remove the glare of the sun and gaze across the park toward his grandmother’s palm tree.
“Mine is way over there because I’m a lot older than you. I’ve already travelled around almost the entire Circle of Palms.”
Dylan listened intently, trusting everything his grandmother told him.
The grandmother showed him where the first palm tree stood. “OK, let’s count from here to the sixth palm.” They walked hand in hand, counting together. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six!”
Dylan ran toward his palm tree to give it a hug. His grandmother laughed. Dylan’s little arms could just barely encircle the circumference of the large tree. He bent his head backwards to look at the leaves far atop the palm trees. “How come the leaves are so high up Grandma?”
“That’s just the way they are made. The whole tree bends and sways with the wind and grows big and tall. Just like you will. Remember you need to bend with the all winds that will blow your way as you grow up.”
“OK, I’ll bend Grandma”, Dylan said dutifully without really understanding her, “ but let’s go around to your palm tree.” Dylan started running ahead of his grandmother, touching each palm tree like a game of tag. He counted to about 23 and then spied a playground with a dragon and pirate ship in the distance, about half way around the palm trees. The palm trees, at least for the moment, lost their importance.
“Can I play over there, Grandma? ,” he hollered back at her while pointing insistently in the direction of the children’s playground a short distance away. Other people on the walkway smiled at the energetic six year old with his sandy hair flopping over his big brown eyes. They looked at the grandmother and also smiled at her, somehow acknowledging that they knew how much fun it was to be six years old and see a dragon and pirate ship that beckoned to be climbed upon.
“I’ll meet you there,” the grandmother yelled back and waved her grandson onward.
By the time she arrived, Dylan was climbing , sliding and riding on everything the tiny playground had to offer. “Watch me, Grandma,” implored Dylan over and over as he scrambled from one amusement to another. About thirty minutes later, Dylan was dancing about in a way that indicated he needed to use the restroom. “Come on young man, time to go and use the facilities,” said the grandmother. After Dylan came out of the restroom, assuring his grandma that he washed his hands (before she even asked him), he said, “Let’s find your palm tree, Grandma. Gosh there’s sure a lot of them!”
“Indeed,” said the grandmother. A short distance later, the grandmother announced “Here’s Mark Twain’s palm tree, #74, which isn’t too far from mine.”
“How come Mr. Train gets to keep that one and I can’t keep mine?” asked Dylan with a slight frown.
“Mr. Twain, not Mr. Train. He keeps that one forever because that’s how old he was when he died a long time ago. He shares it with everyone who died at that same age he did. Everytime I walk by his palm tree, I think of him and all the wonderful characters he created like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. That will always be Mark Twain’s palm tree.”
Dylan shrugged his shoulders; he wasn’t quite understanding his grandma on all this talk about the palm trees. He just knew which one was his and wanted to see the one that was his grandma’s.
“Here it is, #78. My palm tree for this year anyway,” said Dylan’s grandmother as she swept her open hand proudly toward her palm tree.
“Wow, Grandma, you got a really good one. Look way up there. It has a kite stuck in it.” High up, at the top of the tree, a red kite had been ensnared in the tree’s leaves. It struggled about, trying to get free, and then would droop in exhaustion. Suddenly, another gust of wind would lift it upward, only to once again fall back when the wind gust died down. The grandmother and her grandson stood for awhile, looking upward at the struggling kite. Others passing by would look up and point at the kite as well. Yes, that was a special palm, the one with the red kite caught in the leaves of the tree. Everyone watching the poor kite tugging and twisting within the palm tree’s leafy fingers secretly hoped it would break free.
They continued walking toward the last palm tree which came close to the open area of ice plants adjacent to the sand dunes near the ocean.
“Here’s the last palm tree, Dylan. Palm Tree #88. If a person is quite blessed in life, they get to the last palm tree,” said the grandmother with a smile.
“So what happens after the last palm tree? Where do you go next?,” Dylan asked as only a six year old can, with great innocence and wisdom in the same breath.
“That, my boy, is the great mystery. What happens after the last palm
tree? Something wondrous, I’m sure,” assured the grandmother. “Perhaps one just heads onward to the ocean and towards a beautiful red sunset and keeps going forever,” she added with a twinkle in her eye.
Dylan looked beyond the sand dunes, toward the ocean and then back at his grandmother. “You’re funny, Grandma. How could you walk way out there?”
The grandmother only smiled. “Shall we go sit on a bench and watch the sunset?”
“Sure, Grandma. I’ll race you.” Dylan ran speedily down a pathway leading through the sand dunes toward the ocean and the setting sun. His grandmother joined him on a concrete bench that had a brass plaque with two people’s names on it. There was a little heart encircling their names and little dates showing when they were born and died.
“Who were they, Grandma?,” asked Dylan, pointing to
