The warm water rippled against Thom's skin, massaging the soreness of his tired body. He could hear The Jacksons singing "their" song. The words hit like a boulder--"Maybe tomorrow you'll change your mind, girl. Maybe tomorrow you'll come back to my arms." The thought of the last time he had held her made him shiver as the warm water rippled against him. Even though his arms encircled her delicate frame, the Grand Canyon could have fit between them in other ways. She had told him at a candlelit dinner that she was pregnant. He had gone off because he knew if his parents hadn't accepted their marriage, a child was out of the question. He had demanded that she have an abortion. She had turned away in silence, and when he woke the next morning, she was gone. There was a note on the black and white counter top in the kitchen. It simply stated, "Eternity has finally found a color and has found an end."
The water in the shower had gone cold, but the tears were warm against his cheeks. His heart was breaking without Celeste. The Jacksons had finished and another oldie from the seventies was on. The voices sang in harmony with his very feelings.
"I'm wishing on a star to follow where you are..."
"Where are you, Celeste?" he thought. He stomped his feet on the floor. He hated what he had done. He looked around in search of a towel to dry his pale body. The softness and beauty of the rose-flowered towel reminded him of Celeste. Her touch was everywhere he went in the two-bedroom cottage. She had chosen the white paint for the walls and demanded all the furniture be black trimmed in gold. She had said that eternity would always be theirs trimmed with all the riches of love.
What had happened? He looked in the mirror at his unshaven face, his unkempt hair, and the dullness of his once sparkling eyes. He didn't want to get to know this man. If he didn't find eternity in Celeste, where was it?
The melodious voice that rose from the green Escort blended beautifully into the blossoms of the peach and apple trees in the orchard lane.
You stepped into my world when I was cold and all alone. You gave me reason to hope when all but darkness was gone. And now that we've found each other I pray we'll always be together. For eternity has no time...
She had missed Thom this past week, but she couldn't go back after knowing he couldn't accept their baby. Who cared about his mom anyway? Who was she kidding? A child would need all of his or her family.
The wisp of the fresh breeze brought the sensual smell of the peach and apple blossoms through the green Ford Escort, reminding her of Thom and the way he gave those forbidden looks out of those deep, mysterious blue eyes.
The first time they met she was ten years old. It was 1962, and Crawford was having a wonderful summer. The park was crawling with many children. The grass was a shimmering green, and the oak trees stood tall and strong, bursting with emerald leaves. All this beauty and she could only play on one side of the park.
She had been swinging, trying to touch the heavens. When she looked down there, he was just standing and staring. At first, she pretended not to see him, but she could feel his blue eyes staring at her long cream-colored legs. She remembered the thought, "I'll show him," and her jumping off the swing. As she marched over to him to question why he was staring at her, a prissy white lady dressed in what she thought must be her Sunday-go-to-meeting dress came up and scolded him, "You come away from the 'colored' folks. You know they're not like us."
The thought of his mother's words still cut deep twenty years later.
"Not like us!" she murmured as her hazel eyes began another tide. The tears rolled up in profusion as she cranked the Escort and sped down the orchard lane. She knew where she had to go to regain what she had lost.
Thom found himself humming the tune Celeste had written for their wedding. He remembered the first time he had seen her. Seeing her long legs pushing the swing higher and higher held him captive. He wanted to go closer, but he was afraid to cross the line. So, he stood back and wondered why the girl on the swing wasn't dark like their maid Mammie and why her hair wasn't kinky like Mammie's. Her coal ponytail flowed high above her. He was only eleven, but he knew she was the one. Suddenly, he heard the distant thunder as his mother's voice came toward him, "Get away! They're not like us!" He wanted to move, but he couldn't stop watching her. Finally, their eyes met and they understood each other perfectly.
Thom rushed to the closet and got out his favorite Levi's and a shirt. Looking back into her eyes made him realize what he had let go. He rushed out of the cottage, barely getting his Nikes on. He ran down the lane as fast as his legs would carry him.
As he turned the corner, his heart sounded. She was there on the swing just as before. Yet there wasn't any sparkle in her eyes. She wasn't stretching to reach heaven any more.
She could feel his eyes upon her. The forbidden look still made her feel warm inside. She wanted to go to him, but the line was still there. She wasn't going to cross.
He stood frozen in time, hoping she would come to him. He was so unsure. The thunder could be heard in the distance.
"Thomas, Thomas Darden! You get away from there!" the voice seemed mocking. "I told you they're not like us; you need to come back to where you belong!"
Thom jerked around, but no one was there. "You're wrong," he muttered under his breath. He turned to go to Celeste. He longed to hold her again. She was gone away from the swing. His eyes searched frantically through the playing children, but he didn't see her. Yet, just beyond the strong oak on the East end of the park a shadow caught his eye. He moved closer in hope that it was her.
It was two children intertwined and laughing with one another. Their smiles could have lit a dark room. The sparkle in their brown and blue eyes could have warmed the sun. Their shining coal hair framed the delicate features of each child's face and accentuated their olive skin. He kneeled down to speak to the children and they disappeared. He stood, dazed and confused, but he glimpsed her getting into the car. When he called out to her, he was afraid his voice had not carried. He turned and walked toward home.
With her hand on the door, she turned around slowly. She thought she had heard him call
out to her. Her heart began to pound rapidly as she looked through the crowd for him, but he
wasn't there. She felt the life inside her, waiting for an answer. In the car now, she felt strangely
contented as she turned the car around and headed for home.
The morning sun was shining through the window, as Sadie lay quietly in bed. She watched the sunbeams as they danced off the ebony wardrobe's mirror. The birds' melodic voices were always soothing to her in the early spring mornings. It was going to be a beautiful day she pondered. She sat upright, a pillow squeezed tightly as if to warm herself and a gush of tears drifted down her face as her mind drifted into the night.
The house had been quiet as she entered the kitchen door. She called for Minnie and the cat instantly entered the room. Sadie smiled as Minnie rubbed her soft gray fur against her naked ebony legs. A low whisper sounded from the den. "Ty?" she gently called. There was not an answer. She thought to herself that he must be asleep. As she walked toward the den, she checked by the phone to see if her mom had left a note. She did not find anything, and she thought perhaps she was out with dad. It was ten o'clock and she knew they would be home soon because Daddy did not like being out late Saturday. She could hear him in his gentle but stern voice, "Madia, you know tomorrow is Sunday. I need to meditate, so I can be prepared for Sunday school." Her mom would just smile and say in a teasing, but reassuring, way, "Yes, Ruben, I know." Just the image of the imaginary conversation brought a smile to Sadie's face. Yes, indeed they would be home soon. Daddy took his jobs of being the head of the household and a deacon very seriously. After all, he never failed to remind Ty and her that "payday was coming after while." Sadie chuckled at the thought of the words coming from her dad.
As she entered the den, she popped Ty on the head to wake him from his sleep on the couch. He jumped up startled. "Sadie," he said in a dry, sleepy voice, "you better watch it, girl. You almost got knocked out."
"Yea, yea," she smiled as she put her hand in his face. "You and what army?"
His tall frame towered over her delicate frame. As he looked down on her, he smiled, "You just better be glad your momma is my momma."
"And, " she retorted.
"No ands, but speaking of Mommy, where is she? She said she would be home by nine thirty."
"Don't ask me. I just came in."
"Well, I'm going to bed. Tell Mom I love her, if you are still up." Ty bent down to kiss her cheek. "Goodnight."
She hated when Ty kissed her or just touched her. It seemed to her that something must have been wrong with her, because his kisses and touches thrilled her in ways that had to be unholy.
"Goodnight," she whispered.
As Ty headed upstairs, Sadie watched his slim body move. He moved quickly but quietly. He looked like a panther stalking in the jungle. His smooth coal color and his bronze eyes were just like hers. She laughed out loud at her silliness. Ty turned around, hunched his shoulders, and shook his head at her. Sadie was his pride and joy. She had turned sixteen a month ago and, being the older brother by two years, he felt very protective of her. He loved her, perhaps even too much, he thought as he looked at her laughing. He wondered where the little girl in ponytails had gone. He smiled and went up the stairs.
Sadie lay quietly in her bed. She heard Mom and Dad come in downstairs. She turned over, hugged her pillow, and drifted off to sleep. It wasn't long before she awakened to the warm caresses of hands. She had felt his touch before in her dreams, but she never saw the face. This time there was something different about the touch of the hands. It seemed so familiar that she pressed her body closer to the warmth and gentleness of the hands. She thought that she was dreaming. Her body was pulsating, and she could hear the pounding of heartbeats. She knew it was real, but she couldn't open her eyes. She felt the smooth warm brush of lips against her neck and whiffed the scent of cologne. A bell flashing red was sounding through her mind. She wanted to stop, but they found union and there was no return. The fell asleep in each other's arms.
The sun rays beamed in the window a little hotter, jolting Sadie back to the morning. Maybe it had all been a dream. She heard her mother call from downstairs and checked the clock. It was church time. She leaped out of bed and into the shower. The warm water soothed her body, and she wished it could massage the memory of last night from her soul. She began to pray:
"Lord, I don't know why what happened, happened. I don't know if it did happen. Nevertheless, if you do, please take these feelings away from me. Life is supposed to be easy, but mine isn't. Why?"
Coming out of the shower, she could smell the scent of Ty's cologne. It was the scent she could smell in her dream last night. A sudden chill came over her body. She knew the truth. She looked in the mirror at the image of her staring at her. She was pleased with the way the black velvet dress clung to her body. It hugged her delicate frame to a T. She warriors growing up, but the feeling she had was against everything they had taught her. Present your a body a living sacrifice to the Lord. She had given her body last night to a lustful unnatural desire. She took one more look and pinned her coal black locks into a ponytail. She thought how much she and Ty looked alike. She was glad he was her bother.
Ty cleared his throat, "I didn't mean to interrupt your vanity, but I need to know who you are riding to church with?"
Sadie just stood, frozen solid. She tried to smile. She wanted to be with him, but she knew she couldn't handle the pressure. She forced a smile, "I'll ride with Mom and Dad."
"By the way," Ty said, "you look good."
An awkward silence fell between them, but even now Sadie just wanted Ty to hold her. She wanted him to reassure her that she was still good, that nothing had happened and he was always going to protect her. Nevertheless, he just stood in the doorway; things had changed and the dream had turned out to be a real nightmare.
"See you at church," Ty relented as he turned and walked away.
Sadie grabbed her Bible and headed for the stairs. She knew what to do. She would talk to Pastor Wright and he would make everything all right.
Sadie walked through the double doors of the old Baptist church. The pulpit towered over the congregation. If she had not grown up in church, she would have feared that pulpit. Mother Sara was at the door when she entered the church. Mom and Dad had gone to their Sunday School classes. Mother Sara stretched out her white gloved hand to Sadie, but she couldn't take it. She was afraid that Mother Sara could see her transgressions. Mother Sara just smiled at her and lead her to the bench where Ty was sitting. They looked at each other, but neither of them smiled.
Teen Church was packed. The congregation was bellowing "Glory, glory Hallelujah." The musicians were rocking to the beat of their own gifted hands. All of the congregation was clapping rhythmically with the music.
"Since I laid my burdens down. I'm going home to live with Jesus.
Since I laid my burdens down."
Sadie was singing and crying. Ty reached for her hands, but she moved them out of reach. He leaned over to put his arms around her and whispered, "If I hurt you, I'm sorry."
"Ssh," Sadie whispered. "Sing."
Pastor Wright rose and went to the pulpit's podium. Reverend Wright was a big man, not fat, but a big man. His head was round and shone bright under the ceiling light. He had shaved his head about three weeks ago. All the kids joked that he went to the shoeshine stand at least twice a day and had his head shined. Oh! But when he opened his mouth, it had to be God shining on him, for to Sadie, he was the most perfect man she knew. He spoke the word and it was so. He would never do anything like she had, but he would know how to fix it.
"Good morning," he addressed the congregation. They echoed his greeting. "Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. I am so glad to see so many young folks in church today. I am not going to preach today but only ask you one question. And I want you to really give the question some thought. The question is," he gave a momentary pause and thundered the question from the depths of his bowels, "Know ye not that your bodies are the temple of God? Now I know you know what I am talking about. You may act like you don't know, but you know. But what I want to tell you is that there is no sin greater than God. If you have sin, God cannot dwell in your temple. If you want to get rid of sin and let God in, He's willing to forgive. He can take your sins, and though they are as scarlet, the blood of Jesus can make you white as snow."
Sadie felt like darkness was all around her. She heard the words, but she didn't believe that her body could no longer be a temple for the Lord to dwell in. She could no longer hear the voice of Pastor Wright. Ty grabbed her hands and held them tightly. She didn't want to let go, but his hands seemed to burn her flesh. Lord, please see me and be not far from me, her soul seemed to beg. The thunder came rolling to her ears. Pastor Wright was calling for alter call. Someone in the congregation bellowed the song "Make me Whole, Lord."
Sadie sang along with the words, but her feet would not move. Make me whole, Lord, before my life has grown cold. Over and over the words came. In the distance, she could hear Pastor Wright asking for someone to come, but none did. Sadie started to walk toward the alter, but as she got to the alter, she thought she saw Pastor Wright saying I see you and God has no need of whores like you. She turned and ran out of the church. Ty ran after her, but she had taken his car and left.
Sadie ran to shower. The warm water did not help he pain. She began to dry herself off
while looking in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. She opened the cabinet and took out a razor.
She remembered what her daddy always said about payday coming after a while. She went to her
bed and lay on the rose flowered comforter. She took a piece of paper from her desk. She began
to write, Jesus will make your sins white as snow. The blood began to stream down her wrist.
She lay waiting for Jesus to come, but her dream ended before He did.
This story is dedicated to all returning students who are mothers.
After watching a Sunday afternoon marathon of Andy Griffith, I was left astonished by what the television media had implied. In this particular episode, Aunt Bea, Andy's elderly aunt and housekeeper, went on vacation leaving Andy and Opey to fend for themselves. Andy and Opey surprised themselves by doing quite well without Aunt Bea's motherly supervision and even managed to clean the entire house. Extremely pleased, Andy and Opey waited anxiously for Aunt Bea's arrival; Opey, in his childish mannerism, mentioned how pleased Aunt Bea would be to find that the "gentlemen" had done so well without her. Suddenly, Andy jumped to his feet and ordered Opey to mess up everything that they had worked so hard to clean. Why? Because Aunt Bea would be terribly offended if she knew that the boys didn't need her to pick up after them. Sure enough, Aunt Bea arrived before they could finish undoing their grand project. She walked into the "spick and span" living room, and instead of being grateful for a clean house, she immediately drew for a handkerchief and started to cry because, in her words, "I can see that I am no longer needed around here." I immediately forgave this 1950's series for its gender blooper and remembered that in the fifties, women were supposed to keep house and revel in it, but shortly thereafter, the pangs of my own life experience came to mind.
One sunny afternoon, after coercing my husband and son out of the house, I threw up my hands and kicked up my feet as if I had just made a touchdown. Tempted to sort out the ever increasing pile of laundry at my feet, I opted to jump over it, and I headed for the bathroom. Instead of taking advantage of a Calgon filled bath, I spent my leisure time soaking up guilt about my lack of quality time with our son. I knew then, as much as I hated to admit it, that this Andy Griffith show was not far from the truth.
A self-proclaimed conservative feminist, I assumed that traditional mothering molds and the drive to obtain "sainthood" would fall by the wayside. However, after giving birth to my first child, I gloried in my role as mother. The scent of my newborn, his smooth cheeks, and his toothless smile were a just reward for the hours of labor that accompanied his entrance into the world. Although physically exhausted, it seemed as if my son set off an internal time clock that started ticking the day I was released from the hospital. It kept me awake during my midnight feeding sessions and spurred me out of bed at the wee hours of the morning. One look at him provided a short burst of energy, as jumper cables would to a stalled car. I found myself digging up dusty cookbooks from my wedding trousseau to get recipes for exciting and nutritious meals. Scratchy hands and bruised knuckles did not thwart my persistence in scouring away the germs on any object in our home that posed a potential threat of resistant bacteria. "I owe it to him," I thought to myself as I went through the day exhausted, yet fearful that a catnap would turn into a deep slumber and my lunch into a Cajun fiasco. I completed every task with one hand and cried silently for Alice from The Brady Bunch to help. But who should come to my rescue? My own husband. He took to fatherhood more than I expected, and, when he crossed what I deemed "my territory," I raised emotional objections. Rather than rejoice when my husband rushed to the nursery at the first sound at three o'clock am, I berated my failure to arrive there first. What kind of mother was I that I didn't hear my child coo in the middle of much needed sleep! While they snuggled up, I watched with a twinge of envy. As he bathed and clothed the baby, I monitored as the fashion police. "No, he will not go out of this house with that!" I yelled frequently as my husband headed for the car seat. With matching socks and a new outfit in tow, I leapt the staircase in a single bound to interrupt their outings. I cringed, when after looking in the mirror, I saw a reflection of "supermom." "What is a mother to do?" I chuckled.
Herein lies the beginning of my private battle with gender issues, especially as they pertained to motherhood.
Fatherhood has taken on a new form in the nineties as gender roles have taken on new transformations. As the feminist movement has come into full force, women have gained more of an access into the workplace, and the desire to be a traditional homemaker has taken a back seat. Gone is the distant father who sits in the waiting room pacing and anxiously awaiting his child's arrival. The new father is more in touch with his sensitivity and decidedly joins his wife in the delivery room. His decision is no longer just a symbol of love, but more of his decision to share in their ensuing parenting responsibilities. Parenting Magazine confirmed that, in 1973, barely a quarter of fathers were present at the delivery of their children; today, over three quarters re there for their children's births. A 1991 survey conducted by the Population Reference Bureau showed that fathers were credited as primary care givers of children under age five by twenty three percent of employed mothers. And according to 1992 estimates, fathers spend more than six hours a day with their kids on weekends. The statistics sounded great on paper, but adjusting to this growing trend was my biggest problem.
Believing myself to have forsaken the quest for the feminine mystique, I encountered a
problem that I knew all too well, my own. Half of my young adult life was spent waiting for
Prince Charming to step out of my fantasies, build our dream house, and provide for our ten
children. Dating, college fraternities, and a broken engagement preceded my entry into the real
world, where men are human and interest rates skyrocket on twenty-acre homes. I realized that,
like Aunt Bea, I derived my motherhood from what others expected from me, or moreover what I
thought they expected. Was it a fear of rejection that drove me to make the bed at eleven o'clock
pm and then again at six o'clock am? Why did I tie up my self-worth to baking an apple pie, when
Mrs. Smith's tasted just as good or even better? It occurred to me that in the midst of the
celebration of closing the gender gap stood the guilt-ridden individual. He or she suffered from a
strange type of identity crisis. Where stands the girl who persuaded her mother to buy a Ken for
her Barbie Dream House, who now has the Dream House but no "Ken?" Who decides if the man
who gives up his career to stay at home with his children is any less of a man than his father? I
wonder just what will happen to all these men and women who become so overloaded with voices
from their pasts that enjoying their newfound freedom is more of a burden than a pleasure? Where
will I be? These are all questions that can only be answered over time and in the secret places of
the heart. In the meantime, I have decided to be content with my husband's choice of pink socks
for our boy, Mrs. Smith's apple pie, and, most of all, myself.
My grandmother lay in cool, sterile, white hospital sheets, making crackling noises as she moved her ample body uneasily in the metal bed. Nearby, the IV pole held a plastic bag filled with the continuous drip, drip of life fluids, flowing into her rolling veins. With-out her glasses, her eyes sank way back into her hollow cheeks. I was just thankful that she had left her teeth in her mouth instead of having them stare at me from the glass at her bedside table. The hospital beautician came by yesterday and washed her hair, but she had sweated through the night and strands of short, gray steel-wool now stuck to her head. Her usual nasal breathing was heavy as every breath seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, forcing her to be aware of the effort. She turned her head toward the chair that I had been curled up in all afternoon. I waited for her to talk to me, just once more.
Her steel blue-grey eyes searched me as I heard the tremble in her voice, asking me if everything had turned out all right. I could only nod my head up and down.
"I'm sorry I've been rude to your mother all these years," she stated, sort of matter of fact. "It was just hard explaining to everyone around town that my new daughter-in-law is the same old daughter-in-law, marrying my second son. Your mama and daddy just up and left me to handle everybody's questions."
I slipped my hand into the coolness of hers, feeling the loose wedding band slide around her thin, transparent fingers. I listened as she continued to talk about her life and what she wished she had done differently. Her voice was raspy and barely above a whisper. I got up from the bedside chair and leaned in close to her, hearing a strange new language coming from my grandmother's lips, "I love you, Anna." I was thirty-three.
She held me very close and I was afraid to move, believing that my exhaustion was muffling my hearing. Or perhaps, she was not lucid, thinking I was someone else. I wanted to believe that I heard her say my name and love in the same sentence; I refused to question her or torment myself. Feeling her going limp against me, I knew the drugs were taking effect on her system.
She opened her eyes, briefly. "Anna," she said, continuing to hold to my hand. "did
you bring our book?"
"Yes," I answered. "I have it."
"I'm afraid to start this, in case, we don't get to finish it," she said. "Do go on, though. You can always finish without me. Read, quickly, Anna."
I read into the late afternoon, watching her drowse in and out, stopping once, only to have her admonish me for quitting. Finally, I heard her soft, nasal snoring and the deep rattle of her chest. I covered her, returning to wait in the hard, green chair.
Outside the hospital window, it was nearing the end of summer. For my grandmother, it was nearing the end of her winter. In sleep, her large, wrinkled hands clutched the woven hospital blanket, pulling it up around her chin. Dark age spots and large bruises caused by needle sticks and chemotherapy covered the transparent skin on her hands. She has survived cancer from twenty years ago, but it has left its mark. Radiation treatments left her blind in one eye and destroyed the taste buds of her tongue. She doesn't remember what it's like to smell, either--no aroma of chicken grilling over hot coals or the stench of garbage simmering in the afternoon of a southern summer. Although the cancer was localized in her nose, treatment had to be administered to her entire face. At one point during the treatment, her physicians sent her home to die. My grandmother refused, believing that life expected more of her than just waiting for the hearse. She planted a garden that spring, beating the cancer for a lifetime.
A near-fatal automobile accident in the 1960's left my grandmother semi-dependent upon a walking stick, one of those three-pronged steel contraptions. Although she suffered multiple injuries, the worse appeared to be two broken legs and a fractured pelvis. Physicians prophesied that my grandmother would never walk, advising her to get a wheelchair. She only grunted. Renting a walker from the local drugstore, she told the clerk that she wouldn't be needing it long, claiming she didn't have time to just sit all day.
I grew up living only about five miles from my grandmother, but I don't recall ever spending the night with her. She never helped me say my prayers or kissed me good-night. My mother remembered me staying one night with my grandmother when I was quite young, probably about age three or four. My parents were out of town and no one else would keep me. The only time I ate a meal with my grandmother was the same visit. She would on occasion offer me a coke and a piece of cake or pie. I guess she could cook; she had raised five children in the country.
Sitting there in the hard, green chair, I thought back to the usual major events in my life. My grandmother was not there for my birth; I graduated from high school and college without her; and I married, the first time, without her. I never received a birthday present or a Christmas present from my grandmother. At times, my only link to her was an identical last name.
Oddly enough, for my thirtieth birthday, I did receive a birthday card from my grandmother. It was the first and only card of any kind that I had ever received. I cried for two days over a dumb, not even funny birthday card; I didn't know that she even knew when my birthday was. My birthday is in December, so not wasting anytime, I picked out a Christmas card, nothing sentimental or mushy, and wrote her a cheery note. The next week, I received a Christmas card from her, thanking me for remembering her at Christmas; these were her words, not Hallmark's. I saved the birthday card and the Christmas card. After those cards, I was determined to keep in touch with her. Surely, I meant something to her. After all, she and I shared a common name, a last name.
Starting a relationship with someone with the kind of past history we had was not easy; we simply had no clue about who we were to each other. I sensed that it was something that she wanted, but didn't know how to go about it either. Our first visits together were awkward, staring at each other and making those stupid comments about the weather that you say to people you don't know. There were times I thought it was useless and hopeless to ever imagine meaning anything to my grandmother. We had nothing in common or so I thought. Finally, we just pushed aside the rules and regrets and started telling stories. My grandmother was an amazing storyteller, weaving tales and plots out of bits and pieces and strings of conversation, drawing me into her stories like her fingers pulling a needle through the layers of her quilting pieces. I listened to her as she began sharing things about herself, about her dreams, and about our family. Amazed, I watched as she listened to me with such intensity, soaking up the missed years like a dry sponge. Finally, I am related to her.
Almost too quickly, my grandmother became quite ill. She told me that she was just plain tired and worn-out. As I sat in the green chair, I knew that I was watching her leave me. Three years seemed too short to have known her. She rallied enough to leave the hospital, but returned three weeks later. My dad asked me if I wanted to see her one last time; she was in a coma. I told him, "no". I wanted to hold onto the memory of her being alive and knowing me. Besides, Grandmother and I had already said good-bye.
When I really miss my grandmother, I sit down at my dining table and fix a glass of iced tea. I run my hand over the smooth polished wood of the chairs. They were hers. My dad revived the chairs from her storage shed for me; no one else had wanted them. I refinished them and claimed them as my own. The iced tea is served in 1930's depression glass. I used to admire my grandmother's "green glasses" as a child. I never saw anyone drink from them, but I do.
I think of how our relationship merged two generations together with a line between us to walk
back and forth. The time I knew her became important, not the time I didn't.
Grandmother left me a legacy of a lifetime in just a few short years, passing on an understanding
of what is important in this life. She didn't buy me presents or force her physical presence on me,
waiting instead for me to want to know her. She passed on to me her quick wit, her sense of fair
play and honesty, and her love of literature, including the enjoyment of trying to tell a good story.
I am writing her stories down for my own children. During one of my last visits with her, she
gave me a first edition copy of Jo's Boys by Louisa May Alcott. It is priceless because it is the last
book we read together; it is a real and present reminder of how I almost missed a chance of
knowing my grandmother.