There is a gnome guarding the entrance to our garden. Truth be told, there are gnomes everywhere in our garden, but this one is different. This one was first. He appeared on the first night Sharon and I shared the world I was struggling to create, a birthday gift from a woman who was deciding whether to learn to love me again. A peace offering, or at least a promise of a temporary ceasefire.
We named him Bob, in honor of our erstwhile marriage counselor, and while the counselor eventually dumped us (we think) and has faded into the past, Bob the Gnome has stayed ever faithful. He has endured frost, rain, dogs, wheelbarrows and paint withering heat, but for two years he has never wavered from his spot by the arches. It is his job to guard our paradise and, so far, he has done it well.
A couple days after I brought the turtles home, Sharon found one of them huddled at Bob's feet. Incredibly, he had managed to make the trek all the way up the creek. Somewhere along the line, he climbed out, crossed the path and then, inexplicably, chose to stop at the entrance to the garden. Perhaps he was simply tired. It was, after all, an odyssey of epic proportions for a 3 inch turtle. But in my imagination, he reached the entrance to paradise and was stopped by Bob. Though I'm sure Bob speaks in a gruff gnome voice, I believe that, with the turtle, he was uncharacteristically gentle.
Where are ya goin', little fella'?
Dunno. I'm scared and that place in there looks beautiful.
It certainly is beautiful. It certainly is. But ya don't wanna go in there. It's not the place for ya yet.
It isn't?
No, I don't believe it is. But I'll tell ya what, little fella'? Why don't ya stay here and talk with me for a spell? I could use the company.
And so they sat and talked about the things turtles and gnomes have in common, until Sharon picked him up and carried him, squirming, back to the pond. Sharon didn't say, but I'm guessing that if she'd been listening, she'd have heard Bob call out.
I'll see you around, little fella'!
On Monday, the little guy went back to see Bob again. Only this time, it was a different journey one that began when he climbed onto a warm flat rock and fell asleep in the sun for the last time. Again, it was Sharon who found him. But it was I who carried him, still and strangely light, back to Bob's feet. Like my abuelito before me, I held a lifeless turtle in my hands and cried. Then, I dug him a safe place and wished him well in paradise.
Though I feel pangs of guilt for his death, in my heart, I believe he had a good, if short, life. He had plenty of sun. Plenty of space. And his final resting place is as beautiful as anyone could ask for. Plus he has Bob to keep him company.
On Friday, I will travel to my hometown to say goodbye to the father of one of my dearest friends. He lived a long, long life. The better part of a century. He lived his life to the fullest, enjoying his wife, his children and his grandchildren. He had plenty of sun. Plenty of space. Then, on a Tuesday night, he went to sleep and did not wake up for Wednesday.
We will all take a final breath some day. Moments like these seem to bring that into sharp focus. It's a sobering thought. A somber thought. So forgive me if I deal with it by imagining a hand lifting us from our rock, carrying us to the arches and welcoming us into paradise...and for imagining that if Saint Peter is at the gates, he looks like Bob.
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