Finding My Heaven: A Short Story

Photo by Serghey Savchuk

Have you ever wondered what it was like to sit in the middle of Heaven?

Here, heaven is this house that has weathered storm after storm, with its dusty roof and gutters beginning to rust. It’s the porch with two wooden panels that creak no matter how lightly you step on them and a railing that wiggles just slightly under your weight.

It’s the old white lawn chair with a matching table stained with years of dust, leaves, and spilled blueberry guts from mornings of fruit salad and freshly baked muffins.

I push open my squeaky door. For years, I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges and realign the latch. I have to slam the door shut while balancing the arm holding my jar of homemade lemonade to prevent it from adding to the various other stains my porch has gained.

Immediately, I’m hit with the scent of lavender. Purple floods my senses and I close my eyes to take it all in. When my eyelids flutter open, my field of lavender waves happily in the gentle breeze. Even from my porch, I can hear the consistent buzz of bees making their way through my flowers.

I head down the steps and onto the dirt path I paved for myself back when I first had the house built. Occasionally, the lavender is broken up by a patch of clover that shines a bright green against the various shades of purple. My chair sits at a fork in the path, where I could take either direction to get totally and completely lost within my favorite place.

The sky greets me with a sleepy haze. A light mist hangs in the air, which pairs with the grey skies of a drizzly morning.

Much of my life has been spent tending to this field. Morning after morning, I would wake up to check on the sprinkler systems. I’d say hello to the bees, knowing that my partner would be checking on the bee farms soon enough. We’ve always had the finest selection of lavender honey that anyone in this county has ever tasted.

Every weekend during the hot months, we’d have a table at our local market. A purple and white checkered cloth would capture the attention of those who walked past. And if that didn’t work, the wreaths of lavender we would attach to the table posts would make anyone stop and breathe in the wondrous scent.

Our table would have everything lavender that anyone could want. There’d be bundles, salves, honeys, and a fresh selection of lavender baked goods that I often paired with sour lemons or the sweetest blueberries from our neighbors down the road.

Soon enough, my jar has left a cold and wet ring of condensation on the table. The bees, drunk on the lavender pollen, buzz past my feet as they make their way to and from their artificial hives.

There will come a day when my hands will be too knotted and my knees too weak to care for this field, and I fear that day will come sooner rather than later.

Even when that day comes, I know the field will take care of me as I have taken care of it for all this time.

I’ve found my heaven here.

I know I will find my Heaven here too.