Love Forevermore

Sherry Norman Horbatenko

Rocking on the porch in a rickety old rocker, Ramona often halts in mid-rock to listen.

Unmoving and with breath held in check, she waits to hear Johnny's voice raised in song, a whistled tune, an axe striking wood, a plow scraping ground. And only when she hears what she listens for does she move again.

At first Johnny's brother teased her for her obsession until his mother put an end to the teasing. The old lady scolded the boy and told him he should be so lucky as to ever find a love so rare. They became friends that day, Ramona and Johnny's mother, wrapped in a mutual love for one man: one woman as his wife, the other his mother. They live in mutual accord now. When one stills, the other does too, until she hears the sound of life in the apple orchards; and, invariably, a gnarled old hand reaches across the space between them to touch her hand in reassurance and they share a shaky smile of understanding.

Johnny's mother told Ramona about the day life stopped in the groves while she waited in her rocker, shelling peas and rocking, contently listening to her husband at work. The chop of an axe, the rush of a toppling tree, the crash of trunk to ground; and, once the dust settled, not a sound, no thunk of axe against wood, no rustle of leaves, no sign of life but for the flutter of a bird's wings as it flew up and over the hill. And how, in the sudden stillness, she knew. Knew. Of how she flew off the very same porch and ran, ran so fast and yet so slow, knowing she'd never be there in time because time had run out.

There on the ground he lay beneath a tree. Alive still, he reached for her hand; and, when she clasped his, turned her hand to place her palm against the warm wood. He said, "Love forevermore," smiled, closed his eyes, and he was gone. When she lifted her hand to cover the rising screams she saw the carvings in the bark. Old carvings from so long ago she'd half forgotten: their names enclosed within a heart and beneath the heart the word Forevermore. Beneath the word six marks were struck into the wood, one for each child she'd born him. He'd done that and she'd never known.

On this day, the old woman asks Ramona, "When do you plan to tell him?"

Ramona places her palm against her belly and says, "Sometime today when we've a bit of privacy. Johnny's wanted this for so long; I want it to be special."

"He's working alone today, dear. Go to him and take all the time you need to tell him. Take a picnic hamper and carry a blanket. I'll keep everyone else out of the grove."

Ramona kisses the soft and finely wrinkled cheek. "Thank you. Have I told you lately how glad I am you’re his mother?"

"Get on with you, girl. I want to hear his happiness."

Laughing, Ramona hurries to gather a picnic meal and blanket and run for the grove.

On the porch the old woman sits in silence with nothing but the scent of apple blossoms and a fat cat for company until she hears her son's whooping cheer echo across the valley. Smiling, she stands and walks to the small graveyard to sit for a while and talk to her love.