pocket full of sunshine // #SCONTEST2016

pocket full of sunshine

The month before I met Johnny boy, I was in tears almost every single day. The light of my life, my father, had just passed away. He was the pastor in our small town. Everyone in Sycamore, Georgia knew of him and knew of his family. The family he had left behind, which included me, my mother Renee, my brother Stephen, and my sister Louise, was in shambles. We struggled daily just to stay afloat. He had suffered from lung cancer for the past three years, and the daily battle had just become too tough to bear. It was so hard to walk into the Emory University Hospital and watch him choke for air. His breathing was faint that last week of April; we all knew his life was coming to a close. So, my family took him home per his request. He stayed in the antique wooden bed downstairs for the last week of his life, surrounded by the ones he loved the most. He had been whisked away from our family, and it was hard to stay strong.

But then, I met Johnny boy. He was the boy next door--literally. He was Mary Beth's grandson and lived in Sterling, but stayed in her house during the summer. I met him when I was out tending to the hosta plants in our front yard; they were dying, just like my father had. Johnny boy walked up to me, and in a soft voice whispered, "I'm sorry about your papa." I looked up at him as a tear stained my cheek. He had brown, soft yet tousled hair, and deep green eyes the color of the lake behind Old Man Hipp's house. I slipped off my gardening gloves, set them on the ground next to the blue-tinted plants, and stood up. He looked into my eyes as I looked back at him. "Thank you," I replied, and walked closer to him. His denim overalls were covered in stains, as well as his face. My dress only had one stain on it, and I never thought it would acquire more. He looked down at his shoes and wiped his hand across his overalls. "Well, my name's John," he told me matter-of-factly. "I'm Mallory," I replied, but kept looking at his soft features. He had a tight mouth and a button nose, but his eyes were strong and his eyebrows stronger. His face would have been perfect, if not for the dirt all over it. "My gram, Mary Beth Hinton, was wonderin' if you would like to stop by our place for some lemonade and biscuits. She makes them fresh every mornin'," he told me. John's accent was truly southern, but it was very charming. "Of course, that sounds lovely," I replied to him. "I will be over in just a minute. I have to put my gardening gloves back in the shed." "Alrighty then, miss. I will see you soon."

I set the stained gloves down on the desk in the shed. I then placed my arms on the desk and looked out of the window. My father sat here almost every day, with his sweet tea in hand, to write sermons and fix whatever needed fixing. The gloves sat there as a reminder of his past. I stood up and brushed off my dress, then walked to the large door of the shed. I opened the barn-style doors and walked out into the daylight.

I walked up the right side of the steps leading to Mary Beth Hinton's home. She lived in a historic Georgian-style home, which featured two flights of stairs opposite each other: one for the man, one for the woman. Back in the 1800's, it was against all social policy for men to peer at women's ankles, so the stairs were all constructed to protect this rule. I reached the mint-colored front door, grabbed the golden knocker engraved with the word Hinton, and hit it softly against the door three times. I then let go of the knocker and stepped back, so anyone looking out of the side window could see me. It took a minute, but eventually I could see John's face looking out of the window. He smiled, left the window frame. I could hear him unlocking the dead bolt in the front door. The door eventually opened. "Hi, Mallory, come on in."

"Oh, it is such a pleasure to have you here, darling," Mary Beth started. She was older now, and it took her a minute to walk from the kitchen to the living room with the tray of biscuits. John had already offered me a glass of lemonade, which I took from him with a smile. I was sitting on one of Mary Beth's soft chairs, which I had sat in hundreds of times before. Since her husband, Matthew, died four years ago, I came over every other day to check in on her and read a chapter of a book. The latest had been To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee; we were on chapter seven. John sat on the red couch across from me, and Mary Beth sat in the rocking chair right next to it. I reached to the ottoman and grabbed a light, fluffy, homemade biscuit. It sank into my mouth and almost melted. "How have you been doing, Mallory?" I snapped out of my daze. I had forgotten the whole point of being at the Hinton's house: to cheer me up after my father's passing. "Well, thank you. It is hard, you know, with the church. But we are holding up." Mary Beth looked at me with a feeling of remorse. "I know how you really feel, sweetheart. It is okay, I promise," she said with a soft smile on her face. I nodded my head, then looked at Johnny boy. He was on his third glass of lemonade; I could tell because he kept getting up to visit the kitchen. "Mallory," he started. "I remember you talking about y'all's shed out back. Does it need some fixin'? I would be up for a challenge, any day." I thought back to all of the time I had spent out there the past month. When it rained, at least once a week, I could feel the cold drops hitting my hands. "Yes, actually, I think the roof needs to be repaired. Thank you, John. It means a lot," I replied. I reached back for another biscuit, and let it sink in. Johnny boy had done the same thing. I could see the pleasure on his face when it melted in his mouth. His grandmother worked magic in that kitchen.