Heatwave on a Sunday Afternoon

Loss & Grief
Nature & Environment
Health & Wellness
Grandma Stella reflects on the oppressive heatwave in New York, finding solace in observing the birds playing in the lawn sprinklers and reminiscing about her late husband Peter in the quiet of her garden.
Author

Stella Tawfik-Cooperman

Published

July 1, 2018

We are having a heatwave in New York. Each day we pray it will be the last, but it continues. The air conditioners labour in an effort to cool our surroundings. Curtains are drawn tightly to prevent the rays of the sun from heating up the insides of our homes.

Being inside in a darkened house felt quite oppressive to me. My pups and I went to sit out on the porch. The ceiling fan was on over there. As if the heat was affecting it too, it labouriously stirred the heavy air. No one ventured out in this heat. My book lay in my lap but my mind was not on reading. I stared out onto the lawn listlessly. When was this heat going to end?

As if to better my mood, the lawn sprinklers sprung into action! They sang their own little tune as they slaked the thirst of the hot, parched lawns. They cooled the air. I heard a whirring of gently flapping wings as a crowd of little birds landed on the lawn. They danced in and out of the oscillating stream of water. Each time they came out they shook themselves in delight! In and out they hopped, dozens of them. As I watched them, I smiled. How similar all living creatures are. Those birds and I were not too different from each other. It is hot, and my dogs and I would love some water games also!

I had not gone to our back garden this year. That morning, I had strolled through it and realized how abandoned and sad everything looks, just as my poor bereft heart feels without my Peter. I had promised myself not to burden his soul with my sadness. Instead, I washed and scrubbed all the garden furniture. I rearranged a few things. I watered the parched lawns, I pictured Peter lying on the jelala, swinging back and forth, as the birds gently crooned to him while he slept. The breeze would gently sweep through the leaves of the dogwood and the mulberry trees to give him another layer of repose. I smiled as I imagined all that as I scrubbed away. It is a hot day and no one was venturing out in such weather. The world is silent. There was only the garden, myself, and thoughts of my Peter.