Milkweed

Walking through the field in the gentle breeze, I noticed milkweed pods blown in from recent storms resting between the wires of the old rusty fence. Not just one or two, but a whole branch of pods, some opened with their floss rustling in the wind, some tightly closed.

Without hesitation, I was back on the path to my grandma’s home. The old house boasted a big stone porch with a wooden swing on either end: swings where we used to sit and listen to stories of days gone by told by my beloved grandma who had thinning silver hair and a voice I no longer remember.

All along the path that led to her house, milkweed grew, and my sisters and I would stop to open the pods and watch the silky, white hairs blow in the wind. Those were the days when the monarch butterflies were so abundant that when their wings met in the air, we could catch them on wildflowers and then watch them fly away, leaving remnants of orange dust on our fingertips.

And now, after opening the closed pods and standing in the field watching the dainty, soft floss rustle in the wind, I sit on the porch swing on the stone porch of my old red-brick farmhouse and realize that a generation has passed right before my eyes.

Yesterday I, with my thinning silver hair, watched my grandchildren running though the field collecting Easter eggs, and my family sat under the sun sharing stories.

And today, here alone on the wooden swing, I wonder if they’ll someday forget my voice.