I dug through Tim’s box of childhood memorabilia this past week, an orange-edged archival box from Beemer’s stationery shop in Plattsburgh (our parents gave each of us one of these boxes).
Then this lovely flower revealed itself.
Little Timothy must have colored this in kindergarten or first grade, choosing the perfect pink. The leaves are olive green, the same color he loved for his shirts, to set off his eyes! Holding it up to the light, I can see the faded purple lines of the ditto. He traced the first word by following a solid line and the second time by tracing a dotted line. In writing his name at the top, he carefully avoided interfering with his masterpiece. Thank you for saving this one, my dear brother. This flower is just a fraction of the beauty you brought in this world, the beauty that still takes our breath away as we clear what would have been your 68th birthday.
Tim’s drawing calls to mind our sister Michaela’s poem, “Year of Pink Bells” …
Every spring, when the soil smelled musty and sweet,/
we went is search of the biggest bouquet of pick bells . . . /
Angels invited us to their playgrounds, working magic/
Revealing fields upon fields of the holiness we called pink bells.
Keeping Tim Hartnett 