Farewell

It began to rain, a nettling mist that stung my face.  The temperature hovered in the forties but the rain made it feel much colder.  The church itself, all soaring ceiling and polished marble, was cold.  I shivered and pulled my black trench tighter.

There were no flowers; that's what struck me first.  The altar was bare.  The carefully selected hymns, the packed pews did not distract me.  The cold, the rain, the barrenness of it all weighed upon my soul.

There was a mixture of mourners; some catholic, some not.  As there was not a program to follow, those who were not catholic had difficulty following the mass.  Did we sit or stand?  When did we respond to the priest?

I was saddened by it all and yet felt too weary to cry, too spent to sing, too lost to show any emotion.  I wanted to laugh and joke with my cousins, or weep openly.  Instead, I found myself nodding half-heartedly to conversations and staring in the distance.

In my nervous agitation, I ate.  Pimento cheese and egg and olive sandwiches.  Congealed salad and of course, caramel cake.  And more caramel cake.  I ate fried green tomatoes and cheese grits and homemade biscuits.  And more caramel cake.

I came home with Gran's pearls, the graduated string that Grandaddy gave her as a wedding gift almost 70 years ago.  In my mother's car is packed the beautiful green bisque bowl, undulating waves with a white nymph poised atop.  And Gran's red and white china. For me.  And I brought home in my purse her handkerchiefs and the fake diamond ring Grandaddy purchased at Woolworth's on their first date, to fool his friends into thinking they were engaged.

In the Memphis airport, while devouring Corky's BBQ, I remembered, slightly sickened, that I had forgotten to ask for the most important of Gran's things - her recipes.  I called my mother to inquire if I could have them but late last night, my cousin Katie had asked if she could, and they were given to her.  Heartsick, I hung up the phone and silently berated myself for not remembering to ask.  At least I knew that the recipes were valued and in Katie's good hands.

Shortly before turning off my phone to board my plane home, I noticed a voicemail.  Mother had found a stash of Gran's recipe's, all handwritten, and was saving them for me.

It wasn't until today, in the stifling heat of Grandaddy's new apartment, surrounded by the scant few things remaining from their life together, as I took his hand in mine, that I began to cry.  I patted his frail back and kissed his feathery hair.  I inhaled deeply and took in that in all likelihood, I would not see him again.  A million different scenarios, scenes from my childhood, rushed past me.  That was it, of course, I thought as I stood back from him and held his papery hands in mine; with Grandaddy's passing, the last link to the woman who loved me unconditionally, would be gone.  As long as Grandaddy lives, a little piece of Gran is still with me.  I opened my eyes wide to accommodate the tears welling in them.  I took  deep breaths, trying to stave off sobs.  I had filled my emptiness this weekend with food and silly banter and now as I bid Grandaddy goodbye, I realized how little reign I have over life.

I have beautiful things and lovely memories.  I only wish that I didn't yearn for so much more.