Sweet William

I love autumn.  I love to watch the leaves change color.  I love the chill in the air.  But as I'm working in my garden today, I realize there's an aspect of fall that makes me very sad.  The flowers in the garden that once provided so much beauty are now an eyesore.  Their colors are faded.  They're wilted.  The labor involved in planting and maintaining them is a distant memory.  Not another second will be invested in them - other than to pluck their roots from the ground.  They will be thrown into the trash and not a single tear will be shed. 

That's how fall gardening normally plays out.  But today is different.  As I gaze upon my Sweet Williams for the last time, I'm transported back to my high school English class. 

My teacher, William L., is passionate about literature.  But his passion isn't evidenced by animated gestures or dynamic voice intonations.  On the contrary, Mr. L. is an extremely quiet man, not at all flamboyant.  His displays of passion are discreet, almost unnoticable.  He often pauses, mid-sentence, when something really moves him.  Or he'll bring his finger to his lip, and gaze out the classroom window.  To an outsider, he may appear distracted, but not to me.  I know that Mr. L. is an extremely pensive man, digesting the text each time, like it's the first time.  Sometimes, he removes his glasses and pretends to wipe the smudges off with his shirt.  But it's just a distraction that allows him to blot a tear from his eye.  He asks lots of questions, not just for our learning sake, but for his.  He is searching for answers. 

One day, Mr. L. began discussing Sweet Williams in the context of a story. He was surprised to learn that none of us had ever heard of the flower.  He paused and gazed out the window before moving on.  The next day, before we left his class, he took out a box he had brought with him from home.  It was filled with Sweet Williams he had picked from his garden.  He gave each one of us a sprig of the flower.  He even took the time to wrap a moist paper towel around its root. 

Most of the flowers were discarded in hallways or trashcans that day.  One might say that such an extraordinary act of kindness was wasted on a bunch of apathetic teenagers. That may be true.  But Mr. L.'s passion for books did not go unnoticed.  Because of him, I reread some of the classics as an adult.  As I did, I found myself wiping tears from my eyes. I wish Mr. L. was around to share that moment. 

Mr. L. once told me that he was afraid of dying, mostly because he feared being alone.  As I stare at the wilted Sweet Williams in my garden today, I reflect on life.  Being alone is a universal fear.  Much of what we say and do is rooted in that same fear.  As I pull out the last of the Sweet Williams from my garden, I think of Mr. L.  If I could have been with him as he faced his greatest fear, I would have thanked him.  I would have brought him a Sweet William from my garden.  I would have held his hand - so he wouldn't have been alone.

This is an original post to the New Jersey Mom's Blog by Michelle.  Michelle also blogs at A Day In My Life.