Chestnuts
by Teresa
Gauthier
It was still
light out when Claire got home. Loathe to go into
the house to the dinner and chores waiting, she
walked to her side patio and sat down on the
beckoning chair. There was a very mild breeze and
the temperature was pleasant. She relaxed in her
chair and looked around at the calm waters of the
Puget Sound on one side and the steep driveway
guarded by tall maples, golden and rust, on the
other.
In her pocket,
she found the smooth chestnut that she had picked
up yesterday. Admiring its deep auburn color, she
let herself be transported through time to her
home city in Ontario. She saw herself running
along the gravel path and could hear her mother’s
admonition, “Don’t go out of my
eyesight!”
Her short red
hair, unruly and curly was falling in her eyes,
but she didn’t care. She saw a pile of dried
leaves and jumped, spraying leaves all about,
landing softly. Suddenly, she was pushed aside
and almost flattened by her brother, who although
younger, was already her size. He pushed her down
and she rolled under and over to escape his
punches, jumped up, and ran as fast as she could
back up the path. She spied her mother and
grandmother and stopped to watch. They were
standing. arm in arm, by a large gray stone with
writing on it. That was where Grandpa was buried.
Every year in
the fall her mother and grandmother went to the
cemetery. The leaves were glorious in their reds
and yellows and oranges and the squirrels
scampered up and down the trees, waiting to be
chased by the pack of children that came most
years in the old station wagon.
For the adults,
it was a sad day of remembrance but for Claire
and her siblings, it was a chance to run free for
a short time in a lovely park, to play hide and
seek, to kick the dried leaves, shouting and
laughing, punching and chasing.
Some years
Claire would sneak away to read the engravings on
the headstones and calculate the age of the
person buried there. They were young, middle-aged,
or old, but were always “Beloved Wife,
Mother, Husband, Son or Daughter”. She liked
to find a tree and press against it, ruminating
about those who were buried there and used to be
alive, but now could not relish the colors, the
breeze, or the peace under the trees.
Always she
admired the large and magnificent chestnuts. Some
chestnuts are edible but Grandma had warned her
to not try eating these ones. She liked to fill
her pockets, so she could sort and choose at home.
Extra nuts were taken, just in case she needed to
defend herself from her younger, boisterous
brothers.
The last year
Claire remembered going to the cemetery, it was
just her and her mother. All the other siblings
had parties or studies that kept them away.
Claire’s grandmother had passed away that
year. They stood side by side, arms linked, and
looked at the gray smooth stone that now bore
fresh engraving. That year, the chestnuts seemed
smaller and misshapen. They remained unchosen, on
the ground.
Claire’s
reminisce was interrupted by the voice of her son,
“Hi Mom. Wow, that’s a huge chestnut.
Where did you get it?”
“On the
sidewalk, by my work. There are all those ancient
trees on 5th Street. Magnificent.”
“They don’t
grow in our neighborhood, do they?”
“No. We
have mostly alders and maples. Here, feel this.
So smooth and such a deep color. Reminds me of
your grandma. and your great grandma.”
“Yeah, I
remember you told me you used to pick them up at
the cemetery.”
“That’s
right. Hmmm. I had forgotten I had told you that.”
Her son was
handsome with his dark curls and chin stubble. He
patted her back and turned to go, then stopped,
saying, “Not at Dad’s, right?”
Claire looked
at him with some surprise, “What? Oh,
chestnuts you mean. No, I don’t think so.
There are not many trees at the National Cemetery,
just, umm, gravesites.” She paused, “I
am going out there on All Soul’s Day to
clean his stone. Do you want to come? We could go
to lunch?”
“Nah. Not
this year.” He walked away, then stopped,
“Mom. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t
be sorry dear. It’s fine. Maybe next year.”
“Mom,
remember that song about the chestnuts roasting?
Did you ever eat any? I have always wondered what
they taste like.”
“Actually,
Dad and I once bought some when we were at a
Christmas market. Nuremberg, I think.” She
smiled at her son. “Honestly, I think we
threw most of them away. Not all that tasty.”
“Nice.
You got to try.” He sighed and walked away.
She sat alone
on her chair, listening to the gulls and the
sparrows cawing and tweeting as they chased each
other. She rubbed her thumb on the chestnut, over
and over, shining it with her touch.
She would take
her polishing cloth, along with vinegar and water
to the cemetery, and clean the moss, accumulated
during the year. The marble plate, set in the
ground, with his name and rank and vital
statistics, would shine when she was finished.
She would place the chestnut to fill the space in
the “D” of the inscription, “Pleasant
Dreams My Love”. Claire hadn’t
felt the need to inscribe, “Beloved”
on his stone. It didn’t need to be said.
She stood up,
ready to go inside. The breeze was picking up and
she heard the rustling of the maple leaves, as
they fell gently around her, swirling and bright,
making small piles where they fell, too small to
jump in.
Chestnuts
by Teresa Gauthier
Copyright October, 2023- All Rights Reserved
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