Scattered Seeds

Epilogue

In the East Sussex English countryside, there is a long dirt lane lined with elms on either side. It leads up to a quaint white cottage that has wisteria trailing from its eaves, and a tire swing hanging from a large oak in the back garden.

A blonde, curly haired boy runs about chasing his little sister over the plush green grass. She too has curls, but they are a warm brown that match the shade of her eyes.

Now ten-years-old, the boy quickly growing into a young man is protective and concerned when his sister takes a precarious tumble.

He rushes to her side afraid that she will begin to cry, but when the girl sees her brother coming for her she knows that she is safe.

Inside the house an American woman is preparing several dishes of food. The family will have company soon, and she wants everything to be ready for them.

Her lanky husband meanders into the kitchen, and then dips his finger into his favorite pudding. His hand receives a playful slap, and they share a long, private kiss.

The doorbell rings, but bodies begin to flood into the house without waiting for a greeting. They are comfortable and familiar with the place and the family living there, and they feel no need for formalities.

A meal is enjoyed, and the majority of the group makes their way outside to bask in the warm summer evening.

A photographer with a limp and a cane stands next to a publicist. They stare at a photograph on the mantel over the fireplace.

It’s a picture of a heart drawn on a piece of wood, with initials and writing on it.

The photographer scans the other photos nearby. Several are his own work, and memories of hot days in Africa come rushing back to him; some bring a smile, others hurt and grief.

One picture shows a group of volunteers together, and a specific man gazing lovingly down at a woman with a red bandanna wrapped around her head.

The photographer’s eyes move to another couple; one of whom is now long gone, and the other still in Somalia continuing her lover’s work.

Another photo in a crystal frame is that of a learned doctor who saved the woman of the house from a scorpion’s bite once-upon-a-time.

The photographer recalls the day their group received the news of the doctor’s death.

When Jowhar was retaken by Al-Shabaab, the noble Englishman was gunned down while protecting his patients from euthanasia.

The photographer knows of the woman of the house’s reaction; how devastated she was. She kept every letter the physician penned her in a small cedar chest in their study.

Her husband held his devastated wife for several hours while she wept and mourned against his chest.

He is reminded of the young Somali man who died in the woman’s arms.

The boy wanted to follow in the doctor’s footsteps, and the photographer briefly ponders who runs the little medical clinic now.

He laments the loss – so much loss – but then considers the family in the little white house, and all that they’ve gained since those days in Africa.

The publicist puts an arm around his shoulder, and they go outside.

An Italian woman is bickering with an Australian pilot-turned-station-owner, and she passes one of their many children off to the big, burly man.

The photographer lifts his camera to his eye to capture more sacred memories in the lives of the man and woman he’d come to consider part of his own family.

Words that he spoke to them both many years ago drift forward in his memory.

Looking out at the boy and girl who continue to play in the yard, and then the faces of the men and women united in genuine love for one another, the photographer smiles.

Yes, they had all scattered seeds.

Some fell on unready earth and required much time and nurturing to take root.

Many were crushed and destroyed just as they sprouted.

But the few seeds that grew and blossomed under the sunshine of love and the water of time were strong now.

And no one ever imagined what wonderful fruit they would bear.

~ The End ~