THE SUNDIAL

In my side-yard sits a cast-iron sundial.  Our son Adam gave it to my mom, a gift for her garden.  Adam and his wife picked it out, their first gift to her as newlyweds.  She had created what she lovingly called "Adam's Park" by the creek that ran behind her house.  Nina Naomi's first-born grandson was special to her.  He showed his love in an open, talkative, physical way--arm around the shoulders, a hug, a glancing touch of the waist.  I was the recipient of these affectionate moments too, given often and unselfconsciously.  At 6'3", he was strong and graceful; he could lift the heavy sundial with one hand and move it wherever his grandma wished.  She was young when he was born and he called her simply Nina.  

My mom and dad lived near the North Carolina beach.  When Adam would visit he and his grandma would bring plastic chairs out to Adam's Park. It was always in the shade and she had planted hosta and lined the path into the glade with some of her sea shell collection, conchs of various sizes and brokenness.  Sometimes a turtle would crawl up the creek bank or seagulls would fly over.  Conversations were mostly about Adam's future.  It always seemed unlimited.

At age 82 my mom died of cancer.  Adam couldn't visit her because he was immunocompromised from his own cancer treatments. After her death, and then his, shortly thereafter, my father decided to move inland near me.  I went to close up the house and sell it.  There sat the sundial, sturdily marking each hour that passed, as it had been doing for 6 years since Adam and his wife placed it there, in it's spot as sentry to "Adam's Park."  Marking the hours of everyone's lives, my parents happy retirement near the beach, Adam's marriage, his and Nina's illnesses, their deaths and the birth of his daughter. . . . 

I asked my dad, now 84, "Can I keep it?  We can't give away the sundial."  I'd broken vintage plates, worn out family quilts, misplaced jewelry, lost photos--but here surely was the one thing indestructible:  the cast-iron marker of the days of our lives.  So now it sits outside my door.  The grandchildren dodge it when they chase runaway balls.  I haven't moved it in almost 14 years. We are impermanent.  The sundial is as permanent as anything I've seen in my life.  It was chosen by young newlyweds to mark the ending years of beloved grandparents.  But one July it marked another death as well and then a birth and now, in my yard, more griefs and more celebrations.  Moss covers its heavy base. It is indestructible, like love.