* Saying Goodbye to Granny

Note:  See part one, "The Memory Weaver".

I looked at Granny one more time before I went to bed.  Laid out on her butterfly quilt, the piece of muslin tied in a bow on the top of her head.  I looked for a long time.  I knew I would never forget.  I was five.

"What will happen to Granny now?", I asked.  Jeannie and I were climbing the narrow curved staircase to the bedrooms.

Mama was too busy to put me to bed.  Jeannie was always there when Mama was too busy.

"Well, they will come with a car, and take her body to a funeral home."

"When will they come?"

"I don't know exactly.  Soon."

"Will you tell me when they come to take Granny?"

"You will be asleep.  I will tell you in the morning."

"No, you have to tell me tonight.  You have to wake me up.  I want to know when they take Granny away.  You have to promise.  Promise me you will wake me up.  Promise."

"Alright, don't worry, I will tell you, I promise."

I climbed into Mama and Papa's bed, under the yellow flowered comforter Mama had made.  It was stuffed with sheeps wool and tied every few inches with pieces of knitting wool.  I loved that comforter.  It smelled good.

I said my prayers.  Jeannie kissed me goodnight and gave me that extra little hug she always had for me.  The light went out and she turned to leave.

"Promise me, Jeannie.  Promise me."

I fell asleep quickly that night knowing someone would wake me and tell me Granny was gone.  I needed to know.  It was important.

My eyes popped open.  It was light out - morning had arrived.  I felt anger.  I jumped out of bed and ran down to Granny's room.  It was empty.  She was gone.  Only her butterfly quilt remained.

I cried.  My hands grasped the quilt.  But they promised!  They promised!  I needed to know.  I wanted to know.  It was important.  Didn't they understand it was important? 

* The Memory Weaver

Where are they, those little tiny pieces, those moments in time, those snipits.  Find the threads, the scattered scraps, the left overs.  Gather them together.  Don't let them go. Go to your loom and weave the memories.  They are important and your stories need to be told.

I struggle to remember my Granny.  Small snipits, little bits, smidgens, threads.  I find them, I cherish them, I weave them together into the fabric they once were.

"Wash together, dry together, be good friends for ever and ever."  We stand by the old white double porcelain sink in the house where I was born.  Home.  The view from the window is an old log cabin, once a new soddy, now tumbled down and used for the storage of grain.  A huge wood pile is stacked near by.  This was my Granny's first home.  This is where my Papa was born.  She and Grandad built it together, one log at a time.  

I hear the water swirling down the drain.  I dry the last piece of silver ware and together, like a well orchestrated team, we fold the dish towel neatly and hang it in the cupboard under the sink.  This was our nightly routine, Granny and me.  Sometimes we would sing "You are my sunshine".  I would giggle, Granny would smile.

Sometimes Granny would read to me from the pink floral chair in the corner of her bedroom.  I would sit on the floor and lean my arms on her knees while she read me tall exciting tales from one of my favorite books. 

I loved my Granny's bedroom.  It was the largest of our five bedrooms.  Full of light, it was an airy room with big windows covering two walls and built in bookshelves.  How I adored those little nooks full of books I had no idea about. 

The windows looked out over the land.  Family land, Parker land.  The plum trees which grew close to the porch, and farther away, the high poplars which protected the yard from prairie winds.  The other window looked out over a seasonal pond, full of ducks and frogs in the spring.  Our springtime orchestra, Mama used to say as she tucked me into bed.  Beyond the music we looked out over the pasture where fat cattle grazed.

Granny's bed fascinated me.  Made of dark wood the headboard had a piece of burled walnut set in the middle.  And my very favorite thing in Granny's room - her butterfly quilt.  All bright beautiful butterflies appliqued onto muslin by hand.  Always there, always beautiful, always on her bed.

Granny used to mash my potatoes when we ate dinner.  It was a big deal.  I loved it.  Thinking back now, perhaps it was when I came home from the hospital and she was trying to get me to eat.  Mashed on my plate, patted into a square or a circle, whichever I wanted.  Butter was then applied before they were cut into bite sized squares.  She would feed each little square to me on a fork.  It made me laugh.  I remember.

Granny died one day when I was five.  She died in the bathroom while my Papa raised her head and put brandy to her lips.  She was gone.  I cried and cried that night.  I sat in a corner of the dining room on a red hassock with my feet on the old wrought iron heating grate I loved so much.  I stared down at the intricate pattern as Mama and Papa carried my Granny to lie on her butterfly quilt.  She had flown away just like a butterfly.  In silence she had invisibly transformed.

I sat at my Mama's knee by Granny's pink flowered chair and cried.  My Mama cried too.  Our tears fell for a long time.

Friends and neighbours, the women of the community fussed around, preparing Granny for something.  I wasn't quite sure what.  They put a long strip of muslin under her chin and tied it in a bow on the top of her head.  She wore her pretty flowered dress, the one I loved the best, long black stockings and her sturdy black shoes with laces. 

* The Beggar

I stumble, I fall, I bleed.  Tripping over roots and boulders of the past in search of acceptance, surrender and the grace to move forward.  To live in the moment.  To find my happiness once more.

I search and seek
in forests damp and dark
where memories lurk
and pull at me
from deep caves and caverns.
I see no light,
One measly crack would do.
Why can I find none.
Why can I not break away
from the pull, the magnetism
of the darkness, of the past.
It sticks to me like
dried dung.
Like an animal I roll
and wallow in it,
covering myself in its smell
it's imprint.
My childhood roots cling to me,
Wrap themselves around me,
Wrenching me back in time
Like some horror movie.

The pain is too great to bear.
I beg you, allow me my freedom.
Release me.
No good can come of this.
These tears, these howlings,
These broken pieces can
Never be made whole.
Loosen your grip.
Unwrap yourselves from me
And let me crawl away
To lick my wounds in peace.

Must all healing come
from such shattered pieces,
From such brokeness,
From such hell?
My connection with the Universe is gone.
It's shattered.
Null and void.
My soul severed by some unseen sword.
I am split in two
Forever searching for the other half.

I beg for healing.
I beg for wholeness.
I beg for peace.

* This moment in time ...

This moment in time
I have forgotten completely
what friendship and love
feel like.
Did I ever really know?
Was it all an illusion?
I am uncomfortable.
My tribe is far and away.
I scatter deep sadness
And anger in my wake.
Do not come near me!
I am dry,
I am empty.
A cavern lives within.
It is cold,
There is no fire.
Tears pour forth
from the river which
runs deep under middle earth.
No touch of human mind or body
exists in my reality.
I have forgotten their blessings.
I am barren,
An empty shell,
Nothing to share.
A bitter old woman,
Who once longed to
be a loving crone.
The bitterness spills and
sticks on others.
Stay Away!
It will stick to you
like silt in the dessert.
Stay away I say!
Not one step closer.
My loved ones disappeared
long ago and only
now do I have that knowing.
My spirit shakes with
anger and betrayal.
Questions seep from
deep cracks
and dark damp holes.
Fear possesses my body.
My guts have turned to muck.
I am afraid to cough or
spit in case I
shake it loose
and simutaneously explode
spreading small particles
to the far reaches of the earth.
I could not fix it alone,
And I am alone.

So keep yourself together
bitter old women.
Hold on tight
For if you let go
You will fly to smithereens.
There are no insane asylums
No one cares if you can't find
all the pieces.
So don't let go,
or do you want to die in
some dark damp alley way
not knowing your own name?

* So many questions

Oh fate!  Such tricks and evil jokes you play on me as you dance and twist and spiral around.  Amused that I, your prodege, have the energy of the young, after such long and painful Rumpelstiltskin years.  Now, the gift of energy abounds.  The mind, a creative explosion of ideas irrupting regularly, like old faithful.  Yet, you have bestowed pain and limits on movement.  I grimmice and winge as I put a foot forward.  I cry and make a wrinkled face as I attempt to stand.  To feel pain and want to hide it, to pretend I am fine.  "Oh no.  No problem here."  And as the tears find their way from my eyes, the idea machine in my head is on fast forward.  Wasn't this supposed to happen in the youth of my years?  When I was young with body fit, my soul was broken, my spirit sad. Only sleep would surely bring comfort.

Now my bed is not my friend, and even as I try to rest and heal, my mind turfs me out from under the comforter to create.  Create what I sometimes wonder.  Everything that has been there and invisible to me for the last 64 years?  It's all there now, at the surface.  Bubbling and boiling, pushing and shoving and rioting to be next in line to emerge from the darkness into the light. 

Why now?  Why at this last moment?  Did I always wait for the last minute to get things done?  Do I have to hurry?  Is there time?  A voice told me "You have come here to die."  Is it true?  Or is it as I hope .. the old me fading away and dieing as a new me emerges. 

The pain stops me.  I move slowly, carefully.  Still it beings me to my knees.  The muscle in my side gives me sharp jabs and jolts as I try to ignor the fact I am wounded.  It will not allow me to forget.

The dust of this high dessert town, the heat and the silt which respect no closed door has got me down.  The grit on my hands as I attempt to work, read a book, or take a paper from the drawer.  It is May, it is hot.  It will be over soon, people tell me.  Accept?  Any of it?  The pain or the dust?  Not today.

* Searching for my Wings

Time passes quickly now.  They are growing old.   They will leave this earth with a bang not a whimper.  Hundreds will attend the wake of these two, for they are from an old family.  One of the first to settle this community.  People will come together to grieve and celebrate their lives, lived the very best they knew how.

I will never know when they are gone.  I will here no details of their passing.  I will never have the privilege of saying goodbye and thank you for whatever they could give me.  I will never grieve and celebrate with loved ones.  I have the deepest of sadness for this thought.  They are my only close blood, my kin.  We come from the same stock.  We share the same roots.  And yet, it is their wish to never see me again.

They scream these needs in loud defiant silence.  Sign language indicates "No Trespassing.  We will Shoot".  Leave us be.  You are not one of ours.  Never a word has been spoken.  They cannot bear to hear their words appear in front of me.

Bitterness and contempt is locked away in an old barristers trunk.  It takes three keys to open that one.  The keys were lost so long ago.  No one will ever understand for sure what's inside.

It's fermented and rotten.  It bubbles and boils.  It causes illness.  Still they keep it hidden and cloistered from view.

I set you free.  It is your own truth, not mine.  Dance to the rhythm of your drummer, to the beat of your bitterness.  You are old and hard and unbending.  Stiff from anger and pain.  You bleed and yet are unaware.  Go with my love and my blessings.

Myself?  Another question.  Huge for me.  Am I able to free myself.  Will I allow myself to fly, to leave my dearest hopes and dreams behind?

Harder than it may seem to leave my blood, my kin.  I know the truth.  There is no love.  My box of hope is still full.  To empty it is a frightening thought. To face the cold and the hard and the difficult. The facts.  I don't want to face the cold, the hard and the empty box.  Despair may quickly fill the void and then what?  My mind won't let it go.  My spirit longs to heal.  The pain gnaws at me, raw and unyielding.  It claws and scratches relentlessly, creeping into my dreams even as I sleep.   The truth?  The cold harsh raw truth?  I don't have a family.  And really, I never did.  How very harsh those words are to see in black and white.  How will I ever face it?  How will I ever heal?

* The Hope Chest

"Can I come with you?"
"No."
"Oh please can I come with you?"
"No."
"I'll be good, I promise."

It was dark out.  It was cold.  It was just before Christmas.  Billy had built Connie a cedar chest, a 'hope' chest.  He was proud and excited.  He was taking it to her in the back of the truck.

"PLUULEESE.?
"Oh, alright, but you have to stay in the truck!"
His voice was gruff.  He had given in.  He didn't want me there.
I went anyway, happy for any morsel of himself he was willing to share.
A short drive.  Not a word spoken.

We pulled up in front of the house.  The lights were on.  It looked warm and welcoming inside.  The cat was laying on the cot beside the front door.  I could see Aunty Molly.

The door slammed.  The hope chest taken in.  I stood up so I could see better, but I wasn't witness to the giving, the love.

I waited.  It was cold.  Finally the door opened and Billy climbed in.  We drove home in silence.  I took what I could.  I put it safely in my heart.  I stored it there along with a box of hope.  I was five.  I knew it would be alright in the end.  He would love me.  I just knew it!

An Old Belief System Shattered

I thought I had a brother
but I didn't.
I was told I had a brother
but he wasn't.
I was told my brother loved me
but that was just a lie
so we could be a family
and deny, deny, deny.
I thought we ate together
I thought he teased us all
I thought he said I love you
with the crazy and the small.
I thought he came for Christmas
and brought his family.
I thought all those together
were really loving me.
I thought they'd always be there
But they couldn't wait to go.
Our lives turned out to be a lie,
And I didn't even know.

 I thought it would all be OK in the end,
and if it wasn't OK, it wasn't the end.  I was so wrong.