Clara Cooke
A magnolia’s wood was soft, so it found strength in evergreen foliage, and together, they grew a fortress. Their roots upturned the earth in gnarled loops, grabbing at life itself. A bed of fallen leaves lay at the base of each trunk,. Sometimes the leaves caught the wind and arrived in the creek beds, dyeing the running water in tannin and memory. And those who drank from the magnolia-steeped creek remembered.
Not the big things. The small things.
The blooms were heavy that summer in the magnolia grove, fleshy and fragrant. Their pristine petals opened against their dark counterpart, leaves that were waxy on one side and velvet on the other. The honey bees bumbled nectar-drunk in the sticky heat.
***
Betty Townsend arrived home from her third year of university, depleted after a full semester of courses that nearly broke her spirit. Her dad, Dennis, like most fathers , wanted to engage in deep, meaningful conversation about her life’s trajectory. Well-meaning, but how could there be a five-year plan when there wasn’t a one-year?
With a deep sigh, she slipped out the screen door, past her dad sitting at the dining table, and escaped into the grove. Sweat prickled against her upper lip. The oppressive heat teased her hair into unruly waves. Even under the grace of the full canopy, summer was in full bloom.
When she happened upon the cascades that trickled into the creek, Betty took a palmful to the back of her neck. A relief so instant, that she took another to her forehead. To her lips. Water that was sweet, not saccharine.
It was against her better judgement to drink from the creek, yet she did. The water cooled her throat and her frustrations. And that’s when she felt a sensation too peculiar to name. Something teased the foggy edge of her mind before bubbling to the surface.
She was ten years old again, and she just lost the final game of her soccer tournament. The checkered ball slipped past her goalie gloves and cost her team the winning point. Her tears fell silent on the car ride home. Her dad took a hand off the steering wheel so he could reach around to squeeze her knee.
When they arrived home, she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. Her dad knew better, but played along unbuckling her, he reached down and lifted her to his chest. She rested against his shoulder and rubbed her eyes into him. He nuzzled scratchy stubble against her cheek. Her feet dangled from such height.
When Betty returned home from the creek, she found her father with two cups of chamomile tea at the dining table. She sat down and leaned into him, resting her head against him once more. Dennis, bewildered, asked if she was alright. And she told him all about a time when she knew no greater peak than his shoulders.
***
Jasper Boone, one of many Boone brothers, didn’t have much to offer Candy Dominguez except his heart’s promise and his dead mama’s thin band of yellow gold. His mama, Georgette, had been dead for more than half of his life, and yet the closer he got to his engagement, the more he ached for something he never knew. To know her now as an adult rather than the young boy she had to leave behind.
He had wandered all through the main thoroughfare of town, the sunny promenade of coffee shops, wine rooms, and art galleries. His mind seemingly aimless as his feet, still he noticed the nondescript trailhead. The verdant grove of magnolia, wild with the sweetest of blooms, beckoned him.
During the dog days of summer, a shady passage through the trees was a welcomed reprieve. A practical man, Jasper would never leave him without his reusable water bottle on such a day. Yet,today, his mind occupied with thoughts of proposing, the band of gold in his pocket, and the mother too far away to listen – he’d left his water bottle right by the kitchen sink when Candy was washing the hummingbird feeder.
When he came across the creek beds, the water reminded him of tea steeped for too long. The water’s edge rippled as the white blooms landed on the surface. He pursed his lips, knowing he shouldn’t, but he did. Kneeling, he cupped the water with both hands and sipped, knowing he probably shouldn’t. He sipped more- and was filled with that which had been just out of reach for far too long.
He was knee high to a grasshopper, and just as jumpy. His mama stood at the kitchen island his daddy constructed just for her, apron dusted with flour, accentuating the roundness of another baby brother. Her eyes were soft in the golden hour as she kneaded her biscuits by hand, and if he could watch her bask in that light a little longer…
As she willed the water, yeast, and flour concoction into rounded balls of dough, he saw the glint first. Her wedding band peaking through the gloppy mess. She never took it off. Not for gardening. Painting. Baking.
She brushed the biscuits in egg wash and butter then her eyes, green as verdant summer, flickered up to his. She smiled, wiping her hands on her apron, taking care to clean the band of gold.
As he left the creek and the memory, tears stung his throat. What he would give to tell Mama what she’s missed out on—about Candy.
When Jasper returned to his humble abode, he didn’t mind that his beloved was repotting the new seedlings with fingers flecked in dirt. He dropped to one knee in their garden, dry-tongued, and asked Candy to marry him. She called him her “Cielo Tonto” as he slipped the ring on her finger,. And Jasper told her about the mom who listened and gave her blessing.
***
Anyla Wilson had known Kamaria Reed since their swinging-on-the playground nursery school days. Nobody could have known that when their teacher, Ms. Simmons, put their nap cots together, she inadvertently formed one of the most formidable friendships imaginable. There was no napping. Only breathless giggles, shared juice boxes, and traded crackers.
When they were older, they exchanged friendship bracelets with half heart charms on braided rope, suggesting that they were whole together and broken when apart. Their lives ebbed and flowed, wove and diverted time and time again. But when they did reunite, they would always be sure to clink the heart charms together as well.
During the zenith of summer, the girls waded waist-deep in the creek beds of the magnolia grove, steering clear of the bullfrogs and crested newts. They would mind their hair when they splashed because their mamas paid good money at the beauty parlor for their back-to-school braids. They would weave tiaras of bluebells and yarrow because no one told them they were weeds yet, and they took turns crowning one another, wishing each other a longer reign.
When Kamaria got sick, their trips down to the creek beds were fewer. And when she was admitted to the hospital, they ended altogether.
The hospital had sparse visiting hours, often during the school day, so Anyla would often cut her study hall, hop on her bike, and sneak an hour with Kamaria. She would try to bring something that would cheer her up because her medicine made her nauseated.
There was a shortcut through the magnolia grove that Anyla knew. The sweetness in the air reminded her of those dreamy summer days they knew as little girls in creek beds. Anyla decided to take a detour.
She had exactly fifteen minutes until visit time ended, if she booked it. The oncology wing was on the top floor. Anyla, panting, just about crashed through the private suite. She saw Kamaria hooked up to too many machines that beeped and whirred. Thankfully, Kamaria was still awake. Sometimes her medicine made her sleepy.
Kamaria all but lit up when she saw her friend and patted the bed. Anyla plopped down with her hands hidden behind her back. If they had time, she would have made Kamaria guess and they would have made a game out of it. But time wasn’t on their side, so she presented her treasured friend with the single magnolia bloom.
“I couldn’t bring you to the grove,” Anyla whispered.
“So, you brought the grove to me,” Kamaria finished.
It seemed as good a time as ever to clink their hearts together, so they did. And Anyla told Kamaria all about her very best friend and all the creek bed summers under magnolia blooms that she would never forget.
Clara Cooke resides in Richmond, VA as a secondary school English teacher. She is in her fifth year of teaching, and when she is not planning instruction or walking her rescue Great Pyrenees, she is writing to her heart’s content.
TRASH CAT LIT 