Gray Hyacinths

She walked along the beach relishing the chill in the air. The temperature made most of the beach walkers remain tucked safely away in their snug houses. She was wrapped in a warm coat, a remnant from her life up north. The salt air smelled so fresh, so different from the dead air back home. Perhaps calling that place "home" was a misnomer, she had moved here. Here where it was usually warmer, far away from the stark and frigid icy winds of the north. Here, where there was maybe a chance of life. Next to the ocean, the ocean was where life began. Maybe life could begin again for her.

Lines from poems fleetingly ran through her mind. Her lips would silently move as she recited some of her more favorite lines. She loved to read poetry and had memorized lots of poems. Reading poetry was easy, understanding it was less so, but still it was possible. Writing poetry was past her capabilities. So she memorized other people's words.

She stopped to pick up a piece of driftwood. It was so smooth, like satin. It was wood and yet it held a lingering scent of saltwater. The gray color matched the color of the ocean and the clouded sky that was reflected back. It also matched her mood. Gray, washed out, dead. How long had it been since she felt vibrant? Forget vibrant, how long since she had even felt alive at all? She wasn't exactly depressed; she was numb. She was not this or not that. She was nothing more than anything. She was tired. Yes, that is what she was. Tired. Very tired. Two o'clock in the afternoon and it felt like she could barely drag herself through the day, let alone the evening. She slapped the driftwood against her hand. Nothing. She didn't even feel reality anymore. She was consumed by nothingness. Just tired. Always tired.

She continued walking along the beach holding onto the driftwood like it was some sort of life raft. The thought struck her as totally ironic. She had no life to float. There was nothing to cling to, except the driftwood. She would cry except there were no tears left. There was really nothing to cry about. There was only nothing, not worth crying over. Nothingness, grayness, and driftwood. Was there a poem that had all these things? There should be, but she didn't know any. She remembered a line about buying hyacinths to feed the soul. Was her soul hungry? She couldn't tell. Her soul was gray. Her life was gray. Is the color gray hungry? Hyacinths were not gray. They were pink or purple. They smelled wonderful. They were so brave standing tall, with perfume to spare.

She threw the driftwood back into the ocean. She threw like a girl – it didn't go very far. She headed back the way she had come. Following footsteps in the sand. One set of footsteps in the sand. Lord, why when times were hardest is there only one set of footprints? Because, my child, that is when I carried you. More lines that someone else wrote. She's somebody's mother, boys you know/ For all she's aged, and poor, and slow. More lines from other pens. Committed to memory back before the gray set in.

She finally came to her car. She got in and drove to a greenhouse. She purchased four pots of hyacinths, two were pink, and two were purple. None were gray. They looked so nice on her porch. They smelled good, too.