Lent Week 2: Peace Like Leaves of Grass

Hey everyone! This blog belongs to the “Lent Series” that’ll run until Easter. In this series of fictional short stories, I’ll be revisiting characters from the Advent series (which you can find HERE) who are folks from various walks of life—from college grads to business executives to those in recovery. These stories will engage with how these characters can be good friends and neighbors to people in their lives who are suffering. What happens when friends are turned into suffering people? Enjoy!

Peace Like Leaves of Grass

The first farmer’s market of the year was cold. The kind of cold that insisted upon itself, crawling up pant legs, through scarfs, and down coat collars. The spitting rain didn’t make it any better. The space heater at Angelina’s feet tried its best, but its best wasn’t very much against a wet Saturday in March. Everyone at the market was local—die-hard fans and loyal customers who were in the downtown square among all the white tents out of hope as much as loyalty, hope that maybe this meant warmer weather was coming soon.

It couldn’t come soon enough for Angelina. Warmer weather meant more visitors, more tourists, and more customers.

“Have a nice day!” she called after a retreating customer, the little blue jewelry bag swinging from their hand. Angelina wriggled deeper into her coat, but she didn’t have time to sit down and enjoy her heater, because someone else was already coming up to her booth.

“Hi!” Angelina said, rubbing her mitten hands together. “Anything I can help you with?”

The customer, a middle-aged woman with a short, chic haircut, smiled shyly. “I think I’ve seen you on TikTok—do you make those metalworking videos? The ones where you read stuff out loud while you make your jewelry?”

“That’s me,” she replied proudly. During the winter, she’d nearly given up on her jewelry business. She was nearly thirty, she’d gotten nowhere, and only had a literature degree as a backup plan. So while the farmer's market was closed, she decided to pick up a project as a last resort. She had no idea it would actually work; she uploaded videos of herself working with the silver in her mother’s back shed while she recited old epic poems. After several in a row went viral, garnering millions of views, it started to translate to orders on her website. Who knew people could be mesmerized by metalworking and T.S Eliot?

The woman bought several expensive pieces for her daughter and asked for a selfie. As she walked away, Angelina found several other people were ducking into her booth, whether they wanted shelter or were drawn in by her TikTok handle on the board out front. It was only the first market of the season, but the day flew by. She nearly sold out of her inventory, and most customers mentioned her account, asking for pictures or for her to recite some line or another—an old man with a walker asked for anything Walt Whitman, and she obliged, squinting her eyes as she recalled some verses:

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

She sold earrings and bracelets with turquoise stones and long, chain-linked necklaces and one belt wrought with silver flowers. She’d never made this much money before, or sold this much inventory at once. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother! She’d always told Angelina that if she hadn’t made it as an artist by thirty she’d need to find something else. Well, her thirtieth birthday was next week.

The day flew by so fast it wasn’t until Angelina was packing up that she realized the booth next to her had been empty the entire day. Soren wasn’t there with his art prints and corduroy jacket.

Huh, she thought, that’s weird. He’s always here. Well, maybe he’s traveling. He’ll be back next week.

Soren wasn’t back the next week. Angelina had spent the day before celebrating her birthday with her friends at a trivia bar—after beer and cake and staying up way too late, she was pretty tired, but she remembered to look out for Soren. By lunch, his booth was still empty. It didn’t make sense. Soren was a sturdy outdoorsman, a father of two who loved spending his Saturdays at the market. He and Angelina had been placed side-by-side for years. Sometimes he took a week off or left early for a t-ball game, but missing two weeks in a row? Angelina tried not to think about it, but the thought lingered in the back of her mind through another busy day. Someone asked her to recreate her most famous video, and a group of three teenagers asked her if she could recite all of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner from memory. She couldn’t, but the group was impressed by four verses all the same.

The next week, Soren’s booth was still empty. Angelina was about to put up a be back in five minutes sign and ask after him at the coordinator’s tent when a short woman with dark hair came up to the empty booth and looked over at Angelina like she was working up the courage to say something. Angelina’s first thought was that a silver and garnet bracelet would look great with her dark skin. Her second thought was that this woman must be Soren's wife—she was the woman from his picture of his family that he always taped to the side of the tent.

“Can I help you with something?” Angelina asked, pushing her hood back. “I’m Angelina—Soren and I usually have our booths next to each other.”

“Yes,” she replied distractedly. “Soren’s spoken of you. And I’ve seen you a few times around here—I’m Hanna.”

Before she could feel too embarrassed about having not spoken to her before, she stuck out her mittened hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Hanna had a firm grip, though her eyes were wandering. She looked like someone who’d been hit in the face: dazed and confused.

“Are you alright?” Angelina asked.

“I’m looking for the coordinator,” Hanna replied. “I’m not sure where they’ve moved, because they’ve always been by the entrance…”

“They’re off to the left now,” she replied. She took off her mitten to point. “Is everything alright?”

Soren’s wife shook her head, not to say ‘no’ but more like she was trying to clear her head. “Yeah, yeah. I just need to tell them that he’s…he’s not coming back for a while. It doesn’t make sense. He loves being outside. He’s always been such a big hiker…”

After a moment, Angelina spoke. “Hanna?”

“It’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “Soren’s sick, but he’ll get better. He keeps talking about how the chances aren’t good, but that doesn’t matter, right? He’ll be fine.” A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, like the only thing that kept it from falling was sheer will.

It felt as if a trapdoor had opened in Angelina’s heart. Soren selling in the booth next to hers was a fact of nature, like gravity or dandelions in the spring. He’d always been kind to her, even if they hadn’t been friends, exactly. It was a weird sense of loss—he wasn’t gone yet, and yet, to her, he was. And if things took a turn for the worse, Hanna and her children would suffer the most. Angelina hurt just thinking about it, and didn’t know what to say.

Like in every other situation where she didn’t know what to say, she turned to someone who’d already said it. “Of course he will,” she said to Hanna. “Hold on.” She dug around in her bag until she found it: The Essential Walt Whitman. She flipped to a page and dog-eared the corner before handing it to Hanna.

“Take this,” she said. “I have another copy, so don’t worry about it. Whitman was a huge outdoors guy, too. And I particularly love verse 52 of “Song of Myself.” It’s a long poem, but worth it. I don’t know how much you or Soren like poetry, but I always liked it when my dad read to us when my sister was in the hospital.”

Hanna took the book, uncertain, but put it in her purse. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

“No problem. I’m sorry to hear about Soren. Is he at the Grace hospital? I can come by sometime. Take the kids walking or something.”

She nodded and left without another word. As she went, Angelina tracked her through the crowd of people. She didn’t know if what she said was helpful or not. Sometimes silence was better, but she didn’t know a better way of comforting a stranger. A customer walked into her booth, but before she greeted them, she bowed her head and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

Dear God, help her. And him. May you always be somewhere, waiting for them.

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