There is an asparagus fern in my garden that I treasure. The freeze nipped it … I will wait and hope. It is an irreplaceable plant; it was the last birthday present from my sister, Susan. She repotted it from one of our mother’s plants, one she had taken from the yard when we sold our parent’s house; we divided it and brought it to our houses; it was something alive that we could take care of. I had lost mine one winter long ago so, for my birthday, she shared hers with me. I remember that summer day, in June nearly four years ago, I remember her driving up with the fern, unexpectedly. It was potted in a purple pot and freshly green from the early summer sun. I was so happy. It was as though we were sharing our mother for a moment, it was something only a sister would know how to do, would know how much it meant, this living thing, this gift of nature repotted once again and shared once again … energy from the earth extending the memory of our mother and now, my sister. Anyway, the blast of cold may have ended that extension … time will tell.

Within the unexpected package of Artic cold we lit fires in the masonry fireplace and stayed warm under blankets and inside of sweaters. I dug around the corners of my house, inside forgotten cabinets, deep in the bottom of drawers and underneath familiar belongings. I found many “missing” things but my most intriguing discovery were my journals, journals from a life far away from here, a life in the 70s where youth was defined by discovery and the world was waiting to be explored, where all things were possible. There was very little “noise” when these journals were written; I had my own thoughts, my own direction and interpretation of the world. The handwritten words from long ago prompted me to remember how big I thought the earth was, how large the span of forests and wilderness and how mysterious faraway lands and their people were. And how cities were places of extreme energy and opportunity. I wrote in script and silence about boyfriends and school and going places and I wrote about the nearby … the sunsets, the flora and my art. It seemed so simple. I think what struck me most while reading these diaries was the lack of influence in my writings, these thoughts were mine, they were developed without the soil of the world, without external influence. Moments in time written down … I fear that may be lost soon, the written word, the solitude of our thoughts expressed without rumor.

I wait eagerly for the healing sun to do its magic in my yard for we have a wedding there in April. And, I hope my asparagus fern still has life, for it has been my lifeline of sorts for many years, my jolt that reminds me of my mother and my sister each time I walk by it. And as always, I hope for slower moments, moments that give me time to absorb all that is around me, moments that allow me time to reach out to people, those people that I sometimes miss, moments to dig underneath things, in the bottom of drawers and behind little doors discovering a place of safety and secrecy from another time, a time that I know was less harsh.

I end with a cute mention about a small incidental goal I have … it is something I took note of in my youth. Miss Sue, someone I have written about and someone I have carried in my heart for nearly my entire life, did so many wonderful things with her days. One memorable thing she did was cook rice for her cats, cats that came from the woods and sat on her steps and meowed. Now, at 66, I too would like to have those slow moments in time, slow enough and pure enough to cook rice for a cat.

PAM SHENSKY is a wife and mom to five.