One Autumn Morning
The wind blew by. She shivered, waking from the chill. She had fallen asleep watching them again. She shook her head, a smile forming on her face as she watched them. It wasn’t the first time that they came to visit her, yet she felt warm all the same.
Watching their young faces light up as her son swept the leaves together into a pile. The old Maple always went bald this time of the year, littering the ground with reds and yellows. Rocking her chair back and forth, she smiled as the children launched themselves into the mound. A sense of satisfaction filled her, as she watched them rolling around in laughter.
Wrapping her shawl tighter, she smiled. They were such beautiful children. Despite the simplicity of her farm, they seemed happy. Things always seemed more lively whenever her children and their families visited. She was a lonely old woman. But too bad they lived so far away.
She sighed. If only they could visit more often. She did miss her grandchildren. The youngest boy ran up to her, as he often did. He was the most affectionate of the bunch. Wrapping his arm around hers, he rubbed his cheek against her. She smiled, patting his head. Perhaps, when he got older, he would be the one that visited her most often.
His sister, his closest friend, waved at him. With a sigh, she watched him run off toward the girl. Children, always so energetic. He looked back, waving at her. Nodding in approval, she watched him run off with his sister, hand in hand, passing over the small bridge that led to their treehouse. It would be easier to see the top at this time of the year.
She shook her head. They were so silly, yet she loved them all the same. Putting down the rake, her son joined her, sitting by her. She pushed a cup to him. Lifting hers, she moved it briefly toward him, with a nod. Cheers. Acknowledging the gesture with a nod of his own, he lifted his own cup. A warm cup of tea on a cold autumn morning.
Together, they watched the children disappear up the tree, into the little old treehouse that her grandfather built. The little old treehouse that shared generations of happiness, generations of memories. The little old treehouse that she enjoyed in her youth. The little old treehouse that she watched her son play in during his youth. Now, it was the home of her grandchildren.
She shared a smile with her son. There is a sort of magic in sharing the joys granted by family. A contentment that couldn’t be explained. One day, the children too would understand. Despite her old limbs, she felt fulfilled. Seeing her son’s eyes, she knew he understood the feeling too. Family was a wonderful thing.