The Gift of Grandma Maggie

"No new posts for roughly four months and suddenly two in one day?! Unbelievable! This is an essay I wrote for my creative writing class. While a consensus of opinion between the professor and I is that my essay was a bit short, I would like to share it with you anyway, as family history is something I am passionate about."

The Gift of Grandma Maggie

Where I live, parking is limited. You could choose one of the two spaces under the carport, but those are usually reserved for my mother’s Kia, or my father’s elderly blue Chevy (my former mode of transportation). If you aren’t my mother after a long day at the hospital, or my father’s truck, after a hard day’s rust, then your vehicle belongs in the adjacent patch of balding grass, which holds three cars on a good day. However, there’s one parking spot that most miss, and for that I am thankful. Between my great-grandmother’s magnolia tree and our front steps, there is a space wide enough for my car. It is my place. There are few days when I do not park beneath the decadent tree, our blossoming pin on the map of an ever-expanding world. Although admittedly, I don’t spend much time in my designated spot, I find solace in its shade, as I step inside my car on a hot afternoon. Some days, I watch as all the blessings of Maggie fall with each leaf, littering my windshield as hidden covenants between God and one of His saints.

What a blessing the tree has been, resilient and maternal in its own right. Through wars, it is stolid, serene and unwavering. Standing tall enough to welcome those weary from a grueling winter’s flight, it beckons their inhabitance, if only for an evening. The final remnant of my forgotten childhood home, it fills the air with its perfume. Each flower is an ornament on my doorstep, leading to my car, sheltered to perfection.

Great-Grandma Maggie’s magnificent magnolia tree, planted when my father was a boy, is a shared luxury between ancestor and descendant. It is a reminder of the years that have passed, and the people time has claimed, some whose very hands leaned upon the mighty tree. Perhaps if I were to cut deep enough, I could feel what they felt on a dry and desolate winter, or a sweltering July. Could I smell the nicotine in Grandpa’s cigarettes, or a smoky summer afternoon barbecue? The memories within each ring entice my senses, and fill my head with an inferred history.