We step beyond the safety of the fog.

The mist slowly begins to dissipate,

And our eyes now see the brightness.

It’s too intense.

We take a step back,

And tuck ourselves into,

A soft fold somewhere between,

The gray light of blindness—

And the vivid light of sight.

We fear that which is unknown, yet curiously yearn to touch that which awaits us.

We reach one hand out of the cool, moist softness of the mist and feel the warmth of sunlight.

It warms our skin. It offers us comfort. It welcomes … yet, we hear the echoes from our childhood,

“The sunlight can burn your skin.

The sunlight can blind your eyes.

The sunlight can start a fire.”

The message seems clear.

Too much sight is dangerous.

Too much intensity will hurt.

Too much comfort will become comfortable. Beware!

And yet … I turn to find you in the mist and ask, “Are you there still?”

Your voice is quiet, but reassuring. “I’m here.”

After an eternity of minutes, we tentatively step again beyond the safety of the fog,

Our hands together in a loving grasp.

We step beyond the dissipating mist -- our free hands shading our eyes.

This time our eyes adjust more gradually and our will is strengthened by each other.

We slowly become aware of the beauty that exists in the sunlight.

The warmth of the sun invites us. We slowly sip its sensual sweetness.

We are awestruck by the plethora of colors – a symphony for the eyes

Playing minuets in the shade and marches in full brilliance.

A tear of wonder spills from my eye and says what words cannot.

Your kiss stops it from falling unseen and I look at you for the first time.

The beauty of what I see in your eyes draws me to you as never before,

And as I rest my weary head upon your loving shoulder,

I know that despite the childhood echoes–

We will never be able to hide in the mist again.

I loved Mrs. Glines. She lived in the little house across the street from ours. A hint of some sweet aroma wafted through me each time I opened her door. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I’ve come to know it as Rosewater and Glycerin. Now, as an adult, whenever I smell Rosewater and Glycerin, Mrs. Glines is the only person who comes to mind. Mrs. Glines lived alone. Her hair was wonderfully white. In the sun it shone like iridescent angel hair. She always wore it up. She was a small woman. She wore freshly pressed cotton house dresses and pretty matching sweaters that were sometimes held together at the top button with a flower pin of some sort. When I was around six years old I began visiting her. Her small house was extremely neat and clean. She had numerous interesting things in her house, but what I loved most was her collection of China teapots and Cups and her beautifully crocheted doilies. It seemed as if she was constantly crocheting doilies. Whenever I visited, I would watch in amazement as her tiny, slender fingers busily worked to transform the balls of white cotton thread into little, lacy masterpieces not unlike spiders “magically” creating a beautiful web. I marveled at the doilies whose edges were crisply ruffled and stood neatly at attention on her tabletops. I was curious, though. What made the soft cotton thread stiff in the final product? What did she do to it to make it that way? One day I asked the question.

She said, “Well, now, that is a very good question. Why don’t we have a cup of tea and I will tell you all about it.”

“Tea?” I asked. “Will you use your china tea pot and pretty china cups?”

“Well, of course, dear,” she said. “There is really no other way to host a proper tea party, is there?”

A tea party, I thought. A real tea party with real china cups. I wonder if she has any cookies?

We were to sit in her parlor at a small round table adorned, of course, with a beautiful doily. In the kitchen, Mrs. Glines busily began preparing our tea. I watched with eager delight as she filled a delicate crystal dish with small sugar cubes using tiny tongs. She then filled a small delicate matching crystal milk pitcher. I asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Why, yes you can. Thank you. There are cookies in that jar on the counter.” As my gracious hostess took a lovely blue and white china plate edged in gold and handed it to me saying, “You could put some cookies on this plate and take it to the table.” Umm…cookies, I thought. I placed my interpretation of “some cookies” on the plate and took them to our tea party table. As I placed the plate, I couldn’t stop thinking how Mrs. Glines seemed to trust me with her delicate china and treated me with so much patient kindness - a rare commodity in my own house.

Mrs. Glines brought in the tea and cups on a silver tray and placed it between us on the table. I smiled and said, “This is really nice, Mrs. Glines. I love tea parties and my mom is too busy to have tea parties with me and my brothers and dad don’t care much for tea parties. Thank-you, very much.”

Mrs. Glines smiled at me. She seemed to enjoy the tea party, too. She said,

“You know, I have tea parties quite often and usually I am the only one who attends. I would be delighted if you would join me.”

“Oh, thank-you,” I said. “I don’t want to be any bother.”

She replied, “My dear, it would be no bother at all. It would be my pleasure.”

After we agreed on the issue of the tea parties, Mrs. Glines went on to explain her “doily stiffening method” to me. She explained how once the doily is completed she soaks it in a starch-water solution. When it has soaked long enough, she then explained how she carefully flattens the doily out and stretches it into the right shape on a flannel padded board, pinning it into place with long straight pins and dries it outside in the hot sun. It all sounded quite interesting to me. I told her that I did not even know how to crochet, but she said that when I got a little older, she would teach me. I said, “OK.”

After that day, I went to her house nearly every day for our tea parties. I looked forward to them. I would eagerly do any chores at my house in order to be able to be at Mrs. Glines’ house for afternoon tea. We went through the same ritual each day, at the same little table. She always had delicious cookies and we always found something interesting to talk about. One day I would choose a china cup with a yellow rose on it and another day I would choose one with tiny, purple violets on it. I could choose any cup I wanted. That was part of the fun of it.

One day, I arrived for our tea party and saw a doily drying in the sun, just as she had described.

“Oh, Mrs. Glines,” I remarked, “this is the prettiest one of all. I love the way you made it with yellow roses and green leaves. All of the other doilies have been all white. This is the only one I’ve seen that has colors. It’s so nice.”

Mrs. Glines smiled that warm, loving smile of hers and said, “Well, thank-you. I’m very glad that you like it. I made it for you.”

My heart literally skipped a beat. I could not believe what I had heard. “Really”, I gasped? “You really made this for me…?”

I gave her a big hug, thanked her hundreds of times and sat staring at MY special doily drying in the sun. We agreed to have our tea party outside that day so I could sit and watch my doily dry. It was a gift from the heart and one that I have treasured in my own heart ever since.

Mrs. Glines is no longer with us, but when she was alive, I continued to visit her enjoying her tea parties. I always believed that she made those little tea parties for me, to make me happy. Now that I am older, I realize that we gave a gift to each other at those afternoon teas. We filled a need in one another that made a lasting difference for each of us. I’ll never forget you, Mrs. Glines.