by Valarie Vine
the names within the heart.
“Two people who probably sat here many times watching the sunset with each other, while holding hands and appreciating the beauty of this lovely place,” said the grandmother as she reached for Dylan’s small hand and then turned her focus to the setting sun. He willingly held her hand. Other people seated on nearby benches along the pathway were also transfixed by the bright orange disk that was dipping into the great Pacific Ocean. Nobody talked. They just watched as the sun continued to sink inexorably down into the water and flatten out. Dylan snuggled closer to his grandmother as the air became colder. The last few seconds of the sun’s life for that day at the beach were nearing an end. One last swallow by the great ocean, and the sun disappeared.
•
Dylan’s sweat was darkening his light blue bicyle shirt as he continued cycling around the Circle of Palms. With every rotation around the expanse of 88 palm trees, he had been remembering the first time he came to the park at age six. He was now sixteen. His grandmother recently passed away and she was firmly on his mind. His heart ached; his eyes would sometimes well up with tears. He had been filled with energy to do something, anything, since her eyes closed for the last time in the hospital. He had a great passion for bicycling, and after his vivid dream the previous night, decided to visit the Circle of Palms that he and his grandmother shared for so many years. Often, as he swept around the flower-bedecked 88th palm on his bicycle he would say something out loud to his grandmother who was now so far away and yet so close at heart:
“I love you, Grandma.”
“I miss you.”
“You made it to the last palm, Grandma.”
“What is the secret? Is it something wondrous like you said?”
“Thank you for sharing your Circle of Palms with me. I will share them with others in my life.”
“You made a difference in my life.”
“You will be remembered.”
Dylan’s heart was full to brimming for this old woman who had been so special throughout his life. How many times had they walked around the palms? He could not remember. It was only in the last year that she could not walk around the Circle of Palms on her own. He would come by after school to her little house near the beach, and push her in her wheelchair a short distance down the street, and then around the Circle of Palms. She would bundle up on the colder days in her bright red coat and enjoy it all, taking in deep breaths of ocean air and reaching back to pat his hand saying, “It’s been a great ride, Dylan.” On a windy day, her white hair would sweep through the air wildly and beautifully, as her bright blue eyes took in the beauty all around her. Everything for her was an affirmation of life, even in her final days on earth.
Dylan’s bicycle was slowing as he made his final lap.
“Hello, Mr. Twain. How are you today?,” he said with a smile as he passed the 74th palm. “My grandmother made me read almost everything you wrote. You had a wicked sense of humor! Loved reading “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” when I was in junior high school. Funny story that one. Bye Mr. Twain.”
And the revolutions of the Dylan’s bicycle wheels began to slow, and finally stopped. He had completed his 88 laps around the Circle of Palms in tribute to his grandmother! He set his feet down on the pavement and carefully leaned his bike against the 88th palm tree, removed his helmet, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He gulped a few mouthfuls of water from his water bottle, removed his gloves and wiped his damp hands against his equally dampened shirt, and then reached for a folded piece of paper he had placed in a small pack behind his bicycle seat, carefully unfolding it.
“Well, Grandma. Here we are. I have something here to read to you. I wrote it yesterday. Looks like it’s pretty much just you and me today-----too windy for the rest of the world”. Dylan looked across the park and could see one intrepid person throwing tennis balls across the grass to a youthful, romping labrador. Another gust of wind rustled the tops of the palm trees. Dylan looked up and smiled, as if the sound of the rustling leaves was a comment from his Grandma. “OK, OK, Grandma, I’ll get on with it, I know it’s getting close to sunset.” He read his poem out loud, sometimes getting a catch in his voice:
A Circle of Palm
(By Dylan for his Grandma)
There is a Circle of Palms nearby
Next to the sand dunes and within sight of the sea.
I cycle around the 88 palms,
Counting them as I roll by,
Thinking of each as a year of life
And naming each palm for all those dear
Some still here
To see sunsets and smell the sea breeze
While others, now gone, only with me in memory.
For me, they are now a numbered palm for all eternity.
The first stand of palms are those in the Spring of their life,
So many palms to go, to grow, to live and learn, stumble and fall
And get up, running wildly to the next palm.
They see the Circle of Palms and think they go around forever.
The next stand of palms are those in the Summer of their life,
Searching, finding, losing, planning, hoping, bringing new life
To push in carriages about the Circle. They may not notice
The Circle of Palms at all, they are so busy.
And next, the palms of Autumn, those who are halfway and further around,
Starting to notice there are fewer palms ahead than behind,
Reflecting on the passage of time, losing those who are in the stand just ahead,
Learning to count each precious palm in a way they never Spring or Summer, did.
The final stand, the palms of Winter, those who have stayed the course, and continue
Their journey toward the sea, knowing the Circle of Palms is
Nearing an end, and no longer hurrying ’round the palms, but walking leisurely,
Enjoying each palm along the way, knowing that something wondrous lies ahead.
May we all have a chance to complete the Circle of Palms that I see,
Next to the sand dunes and within sight of the sea.
•
Dylan carefully folded his poem. He gazed at his grandmother’s palm tree where he had earlier placed the colorful bouquet of daisies; they were still there, but were being whipped about by the wind in a lively fashion. He gently tucked the folded piece of paper with the poem he had written behind the daisies, and then reached out his arms and hugged the tree warmly. “Guess I’m just a tree hugger at heart, Grandma,” said Dylan whimsically, and added quickly “and it’s all your fault.” He smiled and backed away from the palm tree, bowing his head briefly. He then took ahold of the handlebars on his bike and walked down the pathway toward the setting sun.
