Tinca

We arrived in this small high desert town as if stepping into a different season of our lives. Tucson had released us with a final sigh of heat, and the night here greeted us with cool air, pine, and the quiet confidence of stars that felt closer than usual. At the doorstep of a cottage that looked as though it had taken a wrong turn from Europe and decided to stay, we were welcomed with hugs that belonged to another era. The Bodsons. Already legends, though they would never say so themselves.

And then there was Tinca.

The Lady of the House, yes, but also something lighter, brighter. Terry and I called her our Angel, partly in jest and partly because no other title fit without requiring a choir in the background.

We connected immediately. No effort. No introduction needed beyond a look and a smile. It felt like recognizing a familiar path in a forest you do not remember entering.

Terry watched this with deep contentment. She reminded him of his Grandma Gladys, which meant she was forever approved. I was gently handed over, as one entrusts a favorite teacup to a very capable host.

Life for a newcomer can be a long list of question marks. Tinca turned them into invitations. Come here. Meet this friend. Try this. Sit with us. She placed a quilting needle in my hand as if she were giving me a compass. I learned patterns, colors, and the quiet diplomacy of shared fabric and shared stories.

Years moved as they do. Calmly. Efficiently.

Then, nearly two decades later, she said something that stopped time.

“Pepper, I still see you in that yellow sweater with the blooming lily.”

In an instant, the night returned. The cool air. The doorway. The first embrace. I was standing there again, newly arrived and slightly overwhelmed, wearing that hopeful piece of sunshine.

How did she keep that image so carefully?

Tinca has now moved on to a much larger sky. I picture Tinca showing Terry around. I imagine her organizing clouds into tidy, welcoming arrangements. Perhaps introducing newcomers to one another. Shall we sit here? Shall we make something beautiful together?

One afternoon, a friend arrived with a small pot. “This was Tinca’s,” she said, in the gentle tone used for meaningful things that do not need explanation.

I planted it in a place of honor in my courtyard. I gave it water, morning greetings, and my best attempts at patience.

And then it bloomed.

A yellow lily. Clear and bright. Exactly like the one on my sweater that first night.

I stood there, completely still, which for me is a notable achievement.

Some connections do not end. They simply change gardens.

The flower opens each year with the same composed joy. No announcement. No performance. Just a steady reminder.

We are remembered.

We continue.

In color. In care. In the quiet work of becoming at home.