east west

didn’t mean to come back so soon

Got that call I knew was going to arrive sooner or later. Have been dreading it for some time now, but at 9:51 on Thursday morning, it came. As my plane descended with the night into the Roanoke Valley, I tried to figure out what to say at her funeral. What to say during the day that would - unequivocally - be the most heartbreaking one thus far.

Would I talk about how she was born on Mt. Pleasant Road, raised her children on Mt. Pleasant Road, and ultimately passed away on Mt. Pleasant Road? She lived her whole life on that patch of land and knew it more intimately than I could hope to know any such place.

Would I talk about how she would make that long walk back to her home in the hollow - sometimes tracked by mountain lions, sometimes encountering a stray black bear? How she really did have peaches in the summertime, apples in the fall - which they'd drive over the mountain into Roanoke on Saturdays to sell?

And then - what would I say to Grandpa? How would I respond when - midsentence - he chokes up and lays his head on my shoulder, silent, while I run my fingers through what's left of his hair? When he finds a new picture of her, taken at the family reunion last month, and decides to keep it in his shirt pocket? Brings it out to stare, puts it back. Brings it out again, stares again, puts it back again. Like he's on that boat headed towards Japan, a blue-eyed girl waiting back home for him.

I walked the property line that day. The sky was an undeniable blue, scattered with the particular brand of altocumulus that only seem to exist during this season. Ended up by the creek bed, against my better judgment. I'm certain I've been reading too much David James Duncan (and certainly not enough Wendell Berry), but it stopped me short to see the creek stained that telltale orange. What water remained looked lifeless; you'd never believe we used to have sunfish, bluegill, bass, and more catfish than you knew what to do with. You'd never know Grandpa caught a 20 pounder in there - he named it Big Sam, and it was one of the best Thanksgivings ever. A few autumns ago, our yellow dog went down to that same creek bed -and that was where they found him a week later, due to the buzzards circling overhead.

I was looking at my lost creek, standing beside the grave of my lost dog, thinking about my lost grandmother. I guess they formed some sort of trinity, sealing off the day.

posted by jessica @ 4:42 PM