Two Bulbs

He sat next to her, and they nestled together like two bulbs planted in the same hole.

Owen and Grandma. She read him a book, and before turning the page, she lingered. Asking questions. Nodding her head as he replied. She studied his face and ran her fingers through his course hair.

Her cancer is not a secret. On the way over he asked,  "Is she better yet?"

"She's getting there," we said. "She's getting stronger every day."

He had an entire Sponge Bob gift bag of homemade cards for her---probably fifteen.  Many of them were his patented big ears, big body:

 "Grandma, those Gs are tricky," he said, pointing to her name. He had sat at our kitchen table, his tongue wedged to the roof of his mouth, concentrating. Perfecting the arch and crossing the line.

"I'll bet," she said. "Can you put this on my pile of special things?" Owen nodded, and placed his bounty on her pile, which included his drawings, letters, and get-well cards. On the very bottom, there was a poster, on which he wrote, "Grandma, thank you for being kind to me."

He didn't stay by her forever. Grandpa was there too, so there were pellets to put in the stove, cats to feed, and rivers to forge.

But when it was time to leave, he returned. He rested his head on her pillow, soaking her up. When he hugged her goodbye and whispered, "Love you, Grandma," her eyes grew softer and her voice cracked.

Two bulbs, forever intertwined. Two lives, pushing through the dirt. Escaping darkness. Blooming.

My mother-in-law is awaiting next steps, but the prognosis, today, at this moment, is good. Thank you for your support and prayers.