One more beloved part of my childhood and entire life has passed on. The source of so many laughs and so many stories is now silent. We shared some heartbreak too. Such private poignant moments now filed under memories. I close my eyes and think of them. I do not want to forget. I hear her voice. I hear her laugh. I think of her embrace.
Tears fill my eyes and my chest feels heavy. We understood each other. Unspoken communication. We knew the important dates. We knew the significance of certain items. We knew about the surface wounds and the deep scars. We lived through many losses together.
Fighting the desire to sob aloud, I take a deep breath. The weight on my chest. The weight of so many flashes of people now gone. People I loved. People I cherished. People I adored. I close my eyes again to comfort myself with a joyful memory of her. When she laughed, she did it with her entire body and soul.
She was a chaotic symphony in the kitchen. Her table was always full of delectable goodies and her home was as warm and inviting as the cook herself. The meringue on her pies seemed to be as tall as the surrounding mountains. We should have paid admission to hear her argue with her husband about directions. Resolute in her chosen path, she would not allow him to suggest alternative routes. She giggled with delight each time I asked her to repeat her recipe for macaroni and cheese. Many of the measurements were vague and clearly only known to her. Of course, that is how she liked it. And when she had something important to say, she would grab my shoulders and look me square in the eye before speaking.
Walking in the screen door of her parents' home to retrieve a hot biscuit is a soothing childhood memory. We entered through the back door and to our delight there was always a waiting biscuit. You do not question these things. You are just thankful. We were connected through the past and the present.
One of our saddest shared days surely would have killed weaker people. Her sister (my aunt) was overcome with grief. She told me that I would get my aunt through the darkness. Watching someone I love bury her child and collapse with immeasurable grief is not the memory I want. I do not want to remember the moment that I had to become the adult--the caregiver. But she told me as casually and confidently as usual that I would do it. She had that same sparkle in her eye as my aunt. A twinkle.
And there is the time that I mentioned I had gone to the cemetery and put flowers at all of our relatives' graves. And she said... Girl ! Don't you know the rattlesnakes are crawling up there ? And we all know the answer to that question. She clapped her hands and howled with laughter while looking at me with disbelief that I was oblivious to the habits of north Alabama rattlesnakes. But now she is gone. The only remaining living link to my dad's hometown. The storyteller. The human archive. The link to so many people.
We looked through photographs and scrapbooks together. We discussed family history and local and national history. We kept our mouths shut about skeletons in closets and sorted stories of WWII. Maybe we discussed them but swore to keep them in the family. We sealed the deal with a wink.
Attending her birthday party about a year ago was wonderful. I saw the twinkle. I gave and received several hugs. I was with her for another moment. I had the opportunity to tell her again how very much I loved her.
Blessed was I to have her in my life. Only she could have given me life's greatest lessons on rattlesnakes, meringue and macaroni and cheese.
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