Flowers for a Newborn Child

作者 hanji

2008/09/19 Friday 17:21:49 JST

Flowers for a Newborn Child                             A gift from a special woman creates a 'summer garden' in my        daughter's bedroom.                              By Claire Beynon  It was a cold, drizzly day. Mist nudged up against the windows and  doors of the house. I was adding more wood to the fire when I heard a  knock at the front door.  Judy was standing on the doorstep, wearing her usual faded green  sweatpants, a hand-knitted sweater and a silver tiara. She only wore  her tiara on special occasions. She held a large, crumpled plastic  bag in her arms. We smiled warmly at each other.  "Flowers for the newborn child," she declared, holding out the bag. I  welcomed my friend and accepted the package. There was no sign of any  flowers, but I said "thank you" anyway.  Judy has always been full of surprises. If she said she brought  flowers, then sooner or later, flowers would appear. I have never  known anyone even vaguely like her. She has always approached things  differently, danced to her own tune.  At seventy-six, she still considered such practical things as  umbrellas or raincoats unnecessary on rainy days. She would simply  stride out into any weather, defying rain or snow. "I've yet to hear  of a person dissolving because of a little extra moisture in the  air," she'd say.  That particular morning, there were tiny jewels of rain nestled in  the weave of her sweater, a cascade of droplets adding sparkle to her  wiry gray hair, rain still clinging to the tip of her nose. She shook  her head vigorously back and forth, like a dog after a swim, then  matter-of-factly straightened her tiara.  "Where is the little darling?" she asked. "I'm dying to meet her,  dear."  I led the way to the sky-blue door at the end of the narrow hall. We  both looked in, barely breathing.  The curtains in the little room were open. Low square windows framed  a dripping wisteria vine in full flower. My daughter lay fast asleep  in her grandfather's wicker baby basket. She was loosely swaddled in  a cotton blanket. From the walls around her, pale pink and blue sheep  grazed peacefully in her newborn baby landscape.  I looked at Judy. She was gazing intently at my child.  At first, she said nothing. Then she whispered, "Alisaundre.  Alisaundre." She leaned over the wicker basket, ran her knotted brown  hand lightly across Alisaundre's pale, sleeping cheek. Judy's bright  eyes shone at the sight of a smudge of black hair splayed out on the  white sheet like a charcoal drawing.  "I've brought flowers for you, Alisaundre," Judy said. She glanced  briefly in my direction before she continued. "Your mother has them,  dear, in that plastic bag she's holding. But these flowers are the  kind that will last forever."  I opened the bag and peered into it. I looked up, confused. Judy  straightened herself and began to explain.  "I've made her a blanket, dear. I used the wool from my sheep. I  searched until I found a variety of plants and organic materials to  create the brightest pigment dyes. Then I matched the first letters  of the natural colors with the letters in Alisaundre's name."  She took the bag from me, unfolded the blanket, and scattered a  summer garden into the room. I caught my breath. Alisaundre stirred  in her sleep.  I stood entranced as I listened to Judy name the colors she had  knitted into this exuberant striped blanket, a work of art that both  described and spelled my first child's name:  "Aloe, Lichen, Iris, Sage, Alum, Ultramarine, Nasturtium, Dandelion,  Red iron oxide and English marigold. Alisaundre."  Judy spread her worn hand over the rainbow. Wool the color of softest  sand separated each of the colored rows. "I dyed the wool in my tin  tub, then spun it into skeins," she went on. "I used my longest,  thickest needles to knit the colors. With time, the weave will  stretch and the blanket will grow, just as Alisaundre will."  I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. The blanket was more  than beautiful, more than profound, more than fantastic. I gathered  it in my arms and burrowed my face into it. It smelled of distant  fields and lazy sheep, summer flowers and the rich earth's perfume. I  draped it lightly over my daughter as she slept. Judy bent down to  kiss her gently on the forehead, and together we tiptoed out of the  room.  That was fourteen years ago. The same small blanket that fit the  wicker basket grew with the baby to fit the crib, comforted my  toddler in her day bed, and followed my girl to her full-size bed.  Every night, Judy's flowers snuggle close to the lovely long-limbed  young woman who is my daughter, Alisaundre.  あなたは、このストーリーを読んで何を感じましたか。  私は、Alisaundreと言う名前の一つ一つのアルファベットが示す花の名前に  興味を持ちました。  "Aloe   Lichen   Iris   Sage   Alum   Ultramarine   Nasturtium   Dandelion   Red iron oxide   English marigold   Alisaundre."  同時にJudyが心を込めて作ったブランケットに。このストーリで作者は何を  あなたに伝えようとしたのでしょうか。。  「子供に送る心のこもった贈り物とは、お金でもなく玩具でもなく子供の成    長と一緒に育っていく、時間を友にできる手作りのブランケット」  子供の名前の裏に永遠に枯れない花が染み込まれているブランケット。奥の  深さを感じます。  歳を取ってきますと新しい生命に対して喜びと期待を抱きます。子供には分  からない心のこもった贈り物を考えることが増えます。長年生きてきた知恵  を上手く生かして。  新しい生命は、時間があたえられ、古い生命（老人）は時間を失う。  Life-Chainをつなげるために色々と考え始めます。

 

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