Todd lay
across the hanging swing, a glass of sweet tea next to him. The sun was slowly falling, the once blue
sky, now orange, the clouds now purple.
The westerly wind blew the smell of the tobacco barns away from
him.
He
thought of his grandmother. She used to
sit out here and watch the lightning bugs as they flashed around the maples and
long leaf pines. He looked across the
porch at her rocker. He had recently
painted the old relic. The base was worn
smooth from years of use. The seat
cushion had been removed and never replaced.
There used to be two other chairs next to it, but they had to thrown away
because they were too weathered to be repaired.
It sat there, alone. Just as she
used to just after PaPa left her.
She
couldn’t bear to sleep there by herself, but she would spend the majority of
her day around the house. Often, she
used to mow the yard or prune the bushes.
She would do her housework and sometimes eat lunch by herself in the
small kitchen. Most afternoons she would
relax and walk out to the porch and sit there and watch the sun go down. He wondered what she thought of as she sat
out there every night.
He
could imagine conversations that she had in her mind with her own mother. She lived only a short ways from John and
Mary. MaMa would go over there almost
nightly to make sure that she took her bath and made it to bed. She had grown blind in her eighties, but she
did things almost entirely on her own.
Still, MaMa just wanted to make sure.
They would talk about the events of the day, or what the preacher talked
about at the prayer meeting that night.
Often, they would talk about the children and what they were doing.
After sitting in front of the old TV for a while, Annie listening, MaMa
watching, it would be time for bed.
Before she would say goodnight, Annie would always softly say, “Praise
Jesus” and smile her beautiful smile.
MaMa would put her mother’s hand in her own and wait for her to drift
off to sleep.
He
could imagine her praying a lot. She was
very spiritual, like her own mother. The
day began with a prayer and ended with a prayer. He knew what she prayed about most of the
time: her girls. They were all grown and
had families of their own, but she knew the tribulations through which they
went daily. She knew the incessant
bickering between their own children.
She knew of their daily schedules and the mad scramble to get everyone
where they needed to be every night. But
most of all, especially right after PaPa left them, she could feel their
awkward pain. She prayed so intently
that often, she would break down and whimper to herself in the warm summer evenings
out on that porch.
Now
she was living with her sister-in-law, Mae, who had lost her own husband years
before in a farming accident. Her eyes,
like her mother’s, had quickly failed her.
At first it was just that she couldn’t cook for herself anymore, so
nearby relatives would come by and cook for her, or bring her a meal. But slowly, she was finding herself lost in
her own house in the middle of the day, the dark shadows around her mixing too
closely together. She would become
scared, and flail about with her arms, searching for the phone. Quickly, she would become frustrated after
she reached someone and blame a chair for being misplaced or a door left open,
which normally would have been closed. Her mind was leaving her, and she
couldn’t sense it. When she wouldn’t
call during the day to see when lunch would be brought to her, Mae would call
her and discover that she had yet to get out of the bed. She couldn’t remember where she had put
things the night before and it would frighten her because she thought that
someone had moved them. Mae decided to
move her in to her own house. Although
she was a few years older, Mae could at least keep watch over MaMa and see that
she was all right. In the past year,
though, MaMa wouldn’t get out of bed.
She would keep her eyes closed most of the day. She would rarely talk and fain sleeping when
someone walked into her room. It was as if
she was shutting out the world. Mae
would often say that she heard MaMa mumbling to herself in the middle of the
night.
He
turned, and sat up in the swing. He
reached for the tea and slowly took in a sip, swirling it around his mouth
before swallowing. The crickets chirped
around him. He looked up at the worn
white beams above his head and followed them to the columns and down to the
base of the porch.
Would
she remember the letters that they gave each other over the years? Would she remember the voice that had gone to
bed with her nightly for forty years? Or
would she shut him out as she had everyone else?
He
hated the thought of reading more of their letters. It wasn’t his to read.
But...
But,
what would they mean to MaMa. Would she
react any differently to the letters?
They were, after all, hers. She
had saved them. The ones he knew of at
least, were still next to her old Bible.
How long had it been since she had read them? She hadn’t even seen them in a few
years.
He
stood up and walked into the front door and into the living room. The picnic ham that was cooking in the oven
filled the air of the house with the sweet smell of brown sugar.
He
reached on top of the china cabinet and pulled down the old stack of
envelopes. His fingers trembled as he
removed the rubber band that bound them together. It wasn’t the fear of opening that made him
tremble, but rather, the anticipation.
He didn’t really hate the thought of reading them. What he hated was the thought of invading the
privacy of a relationship that he had so revered since he was little. At the
same time, though, he wanted to know what they said to each other. He wanted to hear their arguments. He wanted to hear their apologies. He wanted
to just listen to them again.
The top letter was slightly whiter
than the others. Its edges just a little
less worn. His heart beat quickly in his
chest. He didn’t know what to expect it
to say. There was no date on the
outside. Just a white face. Walking slowly over to the dining room table,
he turned the letter over and pulled it out.
My dearest John,
I
miss you dearly. I miss walking out into
the yard at night and you talking about how the corn is growing better than it
did last year and me only half pretending to listen. I miss sitting in the swing on the porch and
you cuddling me in your arms. I miss all
of the things that I took for granted when you were here.
It’s
been a little over two years since you left me.
It seems strange to say that you left me then. I hate saying that. I know that you didn’t want to leave us but
it was the only way for you. There are
so many things that I just don’t understand.
You knew that I was there for you why didn’t you come to me? Did you not think that I was strong enough to
carry the weight of the both of us? I
could have John. I could and would have
done anything to keep you here with me.
Sometimes
at night, I lie in bed and make believe that I’m talking to you. Perhaps it really is you coming to me. Some nights I hear you asking if I’m doing
okay and how the girls are doing. I know
that you know, but I tell you just because you know it makes me feel like you
are here. Some nights I just lie in bed
and talk to you about any old thing.
But
last night was different. You asked me
if I could see you. I answered, as you
know, in my heart. You’re always in my
heart. You asked me what I saw when I
dreamed and I said you. I woke up and
realized that I can see you whenever I want but I wonder about how you
feel. Does He let you dream? Are you
allowed to do that in Heaven? When you
close your eyes, and you drift off to the feelings that you thought were
hidden, what do you see.
I
felt myself this morning wondering one thing.
When you closed your eyes before you left me, did you see me?
I
will always love you,
Mary
He
put the letter down on the table.
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