From the Relief Society Magazine, June 1950 –

Postlude to Spring

By Christie Lund Coles

Verla stood by the window facing the unutterably blue sky, the poplar tree, delicate as a young girl in an eyelet embroidery dress. It seemed but yesterday it had been bleak and barren. Now, it was in leaf, the green a color for which, as yet, there had never been quite a name. Chartreuse? Almost, though it was lighter, more iridescent than that. Emerald? That was summer. This pale, traced greenery was a thing unto itself.

The few feathery clouds back of the shimmering tree were like wisps of white smoke or scraps from an angel’s gown, fallen into the blue basket of heaven. Spring …

She could hear her daughter and her friend whispering to one another in the adjoining room, whispering with wonder about the night before. They had gone to an outdoor theater, then driving for a hamburger with the two boys from down the street. She knew it had been fun, she would have liked to have shared the details of it with them. Yet, sweet as they were, they stopped talking whenever she came into the room. They looked at her as though she couldn’t possibly understand.

It seemed only this morning that she had been sixteen and her sister had said to a neighbor boy, “Watch out, Verla falls in love every spring.”

Her answer had been self-confident, dramatic as only the young can be dramatic, as she told them, “I know, and I shall forever … and ever.” And she spread her arms as though to gather the whole, blossoming wonder of the world into her being, to hold it forever.

Yet, somehow, this year spring had come almost as a surprise. The winter had been long; she was tired. Still, for all her forgetting, it was here in primordial splendor, and she was achingly aware again, thrilling, remembering …

Like bubbles rising in a whirlpool, memories rose to her consciousness. It was the spring she was sixteen. She was going with Phillip, who was tall, with dark hair and very blue, blue eyes. They were standing on the porch of her parents’ home. The moon, full and bright as metal hot to the breaking point, gleamed through the new-leafed trees.

Their words were soft, strange even to themselves, though as old as life itself. He whispered, “I’ll always love you … always, always.”

she answered, “Oh, I know. I know. I love you, too.”

They kissed, shyly, seekingly. The next day she played the most popular current love song over and over on an old-fashioned phonograph.

She watched the clouds move, falling into new shapes, new patterns; she saw a sea gull swoop to the earth, pick at a morsel, cry and rise — blue-gray and white — against the sky. Then she heard the radio playing. She had been unaware of it until the particular song struck at her sensibilities. Wayne King was playing, “Memory Lane.” It seemed ironic until she remembered that it was merely an introduction to a program of old songs which came every day at this time. Now, it made her a little sad, with the sadness of lost and lovely things. She whispered, suddenly, I cannot bear to grow old, to be no part of spring.”

From the other room the laughter of the two girls rose higher, gay and irrepressible. It was like water gurgling over smooth, brown rocks. Turning to the door, she called in an unnatural voice. “What are you two talking about? It must be very pleasant.” As if she didn’t know.

It is,” Mimi answered, “But you wouldn’t understand.”

If they only knew how much she could understand, how she could laugh with them, tell them some of the precious, silly things she had done at their age. She wanted to cry out to them. “I’m not so old. Why don’t you look at me sometimes, truly, I mean? Why don’t you see me as I really am … in here. As I was when I was young … younger than springtime.”

hat would be funny to them. Once, she had said to Mimi, “I wish I were your age,” and her daughter had answered, “I’m glad I’m not your age.” Just like that.

Now, she could hear Jean saying, “It’s time he was calling. Oh, if he doesn’t call … I’ll just die.”

There was genuine heartache, fear, in the voice. She remembered the times when the ate she had been expecting hadn’t come through; she recalled the unmitigated pain, the bewilderment, frustration that had gnawed at her until she was sure she would never be happy again.

She smiled to herself, a little sadly, leaned against the window frame, aware of her slightly spreading hips. The clouds were clustering more closely together, darkness was moving slowly from the earth to the sky. A sudden wind shook the frail, underdressed tree. Swiftly, she put her hands over her eyes against unexpected tears. She didn’t know how long she had stood like that when she heard Mimi’s voice behind her, in the same room. She was saying, “What’s the matter, Mother, are you ill? I’ve called you three times.”

She turned slowly and saw the love and concern in the girl’s fair face. She said, “I’m quite all right.”

Jean, whose face was still listening for the phone, still waiting, said, “Maybe she’s in loe, too. It’s such misery.”

“Maybe,” Verla admitted, her laughter tinkling the air as she fitted each into an arm and started toward the kitchen to prepare food for their never-ending hunger. And for the hunger of Phillip, who had just turned into the driveway. The sight of him had quite unexpectedly set her blood to tingling, because he was once more the incarnation of all her springtimes.

Her tears? They had been so brief, so iridescent, like the few brief drops of rain falling now upon the window, yet which, within an hour, would be prisms for a rainbow.

She was so glad for her years, for her age, for the long, secure postlude to spring’s wild, erratic tune.