In Memorium

Catherine Pawlowski (1925-2023)

The old shed smelled of newly tilled earth, old wood and green growing things. Warm summer sunlight streamed through the old wooden door, its slats warped and brittle with time. From down the hill, out of sight, came the rushing sound of the brook as it danced over the old rocks, the bones of the ancient mountain which loomed over the green of the trees, quiet and constant.

In the little garden at the foot of the shed my grandmother puttered. The sun gleamed on her snow white hair as her wrinkled, nut-brown hands set the last stones in place among the whirls of grass, flowers and herbs.

“One stone,” she said, her smile lively in her warm face, “set just so. Perfect.”

The wind sighed through, carrying the scents of flowers and herbs, the gentle agreement of the living world, the dancing stream, and the quiet mountain.

Perfect.