The Orange String

Hey there, little man; handsome grandson of mine.

I have been thinking about the other day when we stepped off your front porch, ambled down the sloping yard to the sidewalk, and swung left. Remember? Down the tree-lined road to the corner park?

Let’s go, Nonnie! You said, arms swinging, three-and-a-half years old and full of gusto.

I carried your stuffed animal and stainless-steel thermos, while you pulled along an orange string.

It was a jolly trio: grandmother, grandson, and string—our slender companion—trailing behind like one obedient dog. You turned and marveled as it rose over dirt and pebbles, and we stopped countless times to correct the tangles and knots, inevitable in a strand some ten feet long.

During our slow-going journey, we played I Spy and discovered a cheery cluster of daffodils, prompting me to recite stanza one of Wordsworth’s I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, my feet marching to the beat. You glanced up and smiled, delighted at words deliciously new.

Say it again, Nonnie!

So, I did.

The orange string fluttered silently, dancing as we marched—a cord to the past. I turned, quite certain I heard your Daddy’s second-grade voice chanting Wordsworth to his sister and brothers. But he was not there—no one was—only the string and the breeze at our backs.

Daffodils gave way to a dandelion posy. You crouched low and inhaled their scent. We did not rush but rather poked along. Exploring, my dear, calls for time, curiosity, and patience.

You stood and sipped iced water from your thermos, then we continued, pausing to wave and offer hello to the walking mailman whose tanned face and weathered eyes crinkled at the sight of you pulling your string.

Numerous dogs barked as we passed. We spied two cats: one, a soft calico lounging on the front porch swing, eyes closed, warm in the glow of sunshine cascading through porch railings. The other was a black and white, perched serenely on a narrow windowsill; a queen governing her kingdom.

And then you found every little boy’s treasure: a crooked stick.

Nonnie! A stick!

That looks like a fishing pole, I said.

No, a candy cane, you said.

Yes, a candy cane, I laughed.

The breeze blew our hair, and I tipped my face toward the sun and closed my eyes, reveling in God’s creation.

As we approached the corner park, you began one of our favorite games: naming God’s creation.

Sun

clouds

trees

grass

flowers

ants

cats

dogs

sticks

Houses, too, Nonnie, you added.

Well, people build houses but God makes people.

You thought about that and then added, God made the wood, though.

I nodded. Yes, because wood comes from trees. This telephone pole is made of wood.

You smacked the phone pole with your stick.

Nonnie, did God make footballs?

I laughed.

God made you and you like football! I squeezed your hand. I am so happy God made you!

Yes, you said. Because you love me.

You passed me the string so that you might dig with your stick. When your digging edged into someone’s yard, I explained that we must never do that.

You frowned and continued walking down the sidewalk, huffy. Then you placed the outer edge of your sneaker directly onto the neighbor’s lawn.

I stopped walking and waited.

You glanced back.

I spoke your name quietly and then shook my head. And then, to my surprise, you stomped on the neighbor’s grass yet again, your eyes locked with mine.

The orange string lay still behind me. I crouched low and looked straight into your beautiful eyes and thought I love you so much.

Time spun backward, and I was young, a mother in my twenties, gazing at your Daddy—my beautiful little boy–reminding him that he must learn to obey me.

I’m sorry, Nonnie, you said after a bit.

I forgive you and I love you, always and no matter what, I said. Remember this…we must always respect people’s yards.

You nodded, grinned, and said, Chase me!

So, I did. We ran the rest of the way to the corner park. You climbed the jungle gym and raced down the slide. The orange string flew along behind you.

We played in the fresh air and the exercise was good.

As the sun began to descend, we gathered up the thermos, stuffed animal, stick, and string.

It took a fair bit of time to walk the half mile home. In unison, we recited We’re Going on a Bear Hunt as you dragged the stick through the dirt inside the sidewalk’s crevices. And then we sang ourselves home, the pair of us, your sweaty little hand in mine. The orange string followed, growing dusty and tangled, but we did not mind.

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My dearest boy,

You are young enough to hold my hand, sing silly songs, and recite poems and good books. Young enough to enjoy taking a stroll to the corner park with me and your orange string.

Spring days are magnificent, no?

And fleeting.

Orange string days will not last forever.

This I know.

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