13.
The next morning started out with a pleasant breakfast. Only James, his mother and Alan dined together. It wasn't unusual to not see Mary at the breakfast table for she often skipped the meal to walk the grounds and gardens. Sarah and Alan chatted pleasantly while James wolfed down his hot eggs, sausage and toast. He wanted to go join his grandmother.
As James chewed the last bit of food that was on his plate he pushed back his chair. He was about to excuse himself when Sarah suggested that she and James take a walk. The prospect of quality time alone with his mother excited him. He had been waiting for an invitation since she returned to the Estate several days ago. She put on her hat and sunglasses and they walked out the heavy doors.
The light hurt James' eyes, but once they adjusted he was greeted by a glorious day. The birds were in mid song and accompanied by the gentle shoosh of the breeze. James took a deep breath filling his lungs with the smells of summer morning.
They walked past several great trees and their leaves chatted with excitement when his mother's voice joined nature's choir.
"So Jimmie, what do you and granny talk about?" she asked earnestly.
James responded like a typical twelve-year-old boy. "We talk about all sorts of things." He trailed off being distracted by something shiny on an old kissing bench. The small plaque read,
In memory of Sybil Branson
And a single white carnation lay beneath it. He knew Mary had left the flower, but at the time, he didn't know it was a symbol for the sweet and lovely. They sat on the bench and his mother continued.
"What sort of stuff?"
Holding the carnation and inhaling its sweet scent he answered, "We talk about nature, death, flowers, physics, Thoreau..."
Sarah's eyes widened with surprise and she interrupted James.
"Thoreau?" she asked.
James noticed her reaction when and asked if she had heard of him and with a smile she said she had.
He looked up at his mother's face.
"Gran is odd, but she's' fun." He looked toward the distance and then exhaled. There was a question he wanted to ask his mother, but he never had the chance until now.
"Mum, do you ever dream about dad?"
Sarah's eyes filled and she blinked furiously trying to hold back the tears. She tried to find her voice but not a sound would pass her lips.
James noticed his mother's distress and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a painting of a flower. White clusters against a green backdrop bloomed before her eyes as she unfolded the paper. It was one of Mary's painted flowers.
"Achillea millefolim," James said, "Gran says everyone can all use a cure for a broken heart."
Sarah glanced at the watercolour, folded it and handed it back to him.
"Let's go back to the house," she said as she stood up from the bench. "There are storm clouds building and we mustn't get wet."
They passed several rows of zinnias on their walk back to the manor. If only his mother understood the language of flowers as well, then she would see the message they spoke, - A message that James was desperately trying to say. I mourn your absence, as well.