The pumpkin patch

She was a small woman, barely taller than the huge pumpkin leaves that rose from carefully nurtured rows. Skillfully, she worked a small hoe, occasionally bending down to pick up a weed to throw into a wheelbarrow. A brightly colored shirt of Vietnamese design suggested her residence was of necessity, not choice.

I could see her for a long time as I walked down the quiet street. She was working at a truck farm that raised a lot of its produce and sold peaches and cherries in season. It was a busy place and I had seen this woman before, out of the hustle-bustle of the shop, patiently tending the plants.

This morning was different. She worked a little slower, more meticulously. I saw her straighten up, holding her small hoe to her chest. Lost in a memory, she was no longer in hot, dry sunny Colorado, but in her garden in Vietnam, tending her vegetables while her children played close by.

Her husband was an official in the government of Saigon. Other than that, she was never sure what he did. But the worried look on his face as he spoke about the North, and the gains they were making, told her the unthinkable was coming to pass.

His sudden appearance at midday signaled the end of all she knew. He was stern as he told her to pack a few things, for her and the children. They had to go now, immediately. He carried the half-full suitcase and their daughter as they ran through the streets. She had a small case and held her son tightly by the hand as they raced to keep up with her husband. Explosions in the distance whipped them on; they ran past a destroyed army truck, wounded soldiers crying for help.

The bus waited, the driver smoking nervously. Her husband put their daughter on the bus and pushed the woman and their son on the bus. He stepped back, looking her directly in the eyes, saying, “I have to help”. The bus door swung closed, the driver gunned the engine, a cloud of black smoke hid her husband . It was the last time she ever saw him.

A dream fell over them, the lone woman and the two children. She remembers a small boat, the tossing of the waves, the helicopter passing low overhead, and the small boat with the young, strong Americans, the giant ship.

They arrived in Hawaii. Days passed, weeks passed, months passed. One day a friend said they had been accepted by a church in America, in a place called Colorado. The church would help her, find her a place to live, get her kids to a school.

So here she was, 35 years later, working the pumpkin patch. She loved the pumpkins as she had loved her vegetables, her children, her husband.

And now this old walking American was saying “Nice garden”. She smiled, her eyes full of tears and all that had gone before. She nodded, a small bow.

Her pumpkins stirred, caressed her, soothed her loss and she went back to work.