Wind Chimes

“What are those?” James asked Grandma after she stepped down from the stool. Grandma looked fondly at her work hanging from the soffit of our home.

“Those are wind chimes,” she explained. “Every breeze has a song in it, but it can’t sing it by itself. These will move in the breeze and let the song be heard.” A puff of a breeze fluttered the chimes, filling the air with their gentle tinkling. James listened to the sound still as the breeze died, then ran back into the house to play.

Newly retired, Grandma stayed with us until she found a place of her own. A scant 15 minutes away, she was close enough to be a part of the family, but far enough to have her own life. This made her visits special, and we loved having her over.

One sunny Saturday morning, Grandma didn’t answer her phone, and Sandi went over to check. She was crying when she called me. Her mother had passed away peacefully in her recliner, and now I had to explain to two special boys about where Grandma went.

Ian took it matter-of-factly, but James was full of questions.

“Where is Grandma?” he asked. “Why can’t I talk to her?”

“Grandma will always be with us,” I answered, “and we can talk to her. We just can’t hear what she has to say.”

“Will I forget her?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” I assured him, “but every time you want to think about her, just go to the deck and listen to her wind chimes. They’ll let you know that she’s really still with us.”

Later that afternoon, I beckoned to Sandi to look through the window. James had put a chair on the deck and sat listening to the song in the breeze.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.