She thought of herself as an old woman. An elder. A veteran of years of this community, of babies born and old folk dying, the life cycle of any neighborhood, hamlet, town, city.
Her roots were deep here. Her siblings had settled close to where they were born, but she had gone and come back. Sought her fortune in greener pastures, she had said. For years now though, she had made it back to where she came from, to people who knew her, as she said, when she was ugly. Secrets lost to time, but dredged up over a Sunday dinner or a leisurely porch sit.
As the years went by, her siblings died off. Each funeral an exercise in grief and sadness, as she comforted their children and grandchildren. Reminding them that they were loved and now their mom or dad was with the Lord now, free from pain and waiting for them to join them up there.
A couple of brothers owned businesses, and she had leaned on them for things. One was a contractor, so when she needed home repairs or some heavy equipment to dig a hole of mow her huge fromt lawn, he obliged after a phone call. No money changed hands, no recompense spoken of. For her end, though, she had hot food ready whenever he showed up, and sometimes he’d call just to check on her and she’d idly drop the list of what she had made – greens with smoked turkey, or a pan of Mac and cheese, or brisket sandwich on toasted white bread, a red velvet cake, a pitcher of lemonade – and he’d find his way to her house. They all did; the family used her house as a meeting place, a place to check in and sit a spell.
TBut that brother was gone, relatively recently, and she missed him something terrible. Not for what he did for her, you understand, but his loud laugh and his exhaustion after a long day of work, drawn out to her stewpot, but asleep at the table with fork in hand. He was gone, and his kids were running his business now, and they knew how much their daddy loved her, so they would call and ask every now and again, “how you doin Auntie? Need anything?” and she would laugh and say no.
This day, she needed something small – a photocopy of some documents, a few sticks of kindling, a 40 watt light bulb – and one of her nieces calls to see how she is.
“You need something Auntie?”
She explains the situation, and before her nine can acquiesce, she laughs. “Your dad woulda ran that out to me after he got off work, and I’d pay him back with a plate of something he liked. I guess that account is closed, huh?”
Her niece responded, “auntie, as long as we hear, your accoShe thought of herself as an old woman. An elder. A veteran of years of this community, of babies born and old folk dying, the life cycle of any neighborhood, hamlet, town, city.
Her roots were deep here. Her siblings had settled close to where they were born, but she had gone and come back. Sought her fortune in greener pastures, she had said. For years now though, she had made it back to where she came from, to people who knew her, as she said, when she was ugly. Secrets lost to time, but dredged up over a Sunday dinner or a leisurely porch sit.
As the years went by, her siblings died off. Each funeral an exercise in grief and sadness, as she comforted their children and grandchildren. Reminding them that they were loved fiercely and now their mom or dad or aunt or uncle was with the Lord now, free from pain and waiting for them to join them up there, as long as they continued to read their Bible and do the right things.
A couple of her brothers had owned businesses, and she had leaned on them for things, but not too often, mind you. One was a contractor, so when she needed home repairs or some heavy equipment to dig a hole or mow her huge fromt lawn, he obliged after a phone call. No money changed hands, no recompense spoken of. For her end, though, she had hot food ready whenever he showed up, and sometimes he’d call to check on her and she’d happen to mention what she had made – greens with smoked turkey, or a pan of mac and cheese, or brisket sandwich on toasted white bread, a red velvet cake, a pitcher of lemonade – and he’d find his way to her house. They all did; the family used her house as a meeting place, a place to check in and sit a spell.
But that contractor brother was gone, recently gone to sit with the Lord, and she missed him something terrible. Not for what he did for her, you understand, but his loud laugh and his exhaustion after a long day of work, drawn out to her stewpot, but asleep at the table with fork in hand. He was gone, and his kids were running his business now, and they knew how much their daddy loved her, so they would call and ask every now and again, “how you doin Auntie? Need anything?” and she would laugh and say no.
This day, she needed something small – a photocopy of some documents, a few sticks of kindling, a 40 watt light bulb – and one of her nieces calls to see how she is.
“You need something Auntie?”
She explains the situation, and before her niece can volunteer, she laughs. “Your dad woulda ran that out to me after he got off work, and I’d pay him back with a plate of something he liked. I guess that account is closed, huh? Can’t bother young folk like I did these old folk.”
She thought of herself as an old woman. An elder. A veteran of years of this community, of babies born and old folk dying, the life cycle of any neighborhood, hamlet, town, city.
Her roots were deep here. Her siblings had settled close to where they were born, but she had gone and come back. Sought her fortune in greener pastures, she had said. For years now though, she had made it back to where she came from, to people who knew her, as she said, when she was ugly. Secrets lost to time, but dredged up over a Sunday dinner or a leisurely porch sit.
As the years went by, her siblings died off. Each funeral an exercise in grief and sadness, as she comforted their children and grandchildren. Reminding them that they were loved fiercely and now their mom or dad or aunt or uncle was with the Lord now, free from pain and waiting for them to join them up there, as long as they continued to read their Bible and do the right things.
A couple of her brothers had owned businesses, and she had leaned on them for things, but not too often, mind you. One was a contractor, so when she needed home repairs or some heavy equipment to dig a hole or mow her huge fromt lawn, he obliged after a phone call. No money changed hands, no recompense spoken of. For her end, though, she had hot food ready whenever he showed up, and sometimes he’d call to check on her and she’d happen to mention what she had made – greens with smoked turkey, or a pan of mac and cheese, or brisket sandwich on toasted white bread, a red velvet cake, a pitcher of lemonade – and he’d find his way to her house. They all did; the family used her house as a meeting place, a place to check in and sit a spell.
But that contractor brother was gone, recently gone to sit with the Lord, and she missed him something terrible. Not for what he did for her, you understand, but his loud laugh and his exhaustion after a long day of work, drawn out to her stewpot, but asleep at the table with fork in hand. He was gone, and his kids were running his business now, and they knew how much their daddy loved her, so they would call and ask every now and again, “how you doin Auntie? Need anything?” and she would laugh and say no.
This day, she needed something small – a photocopy of some documents, a few sticks of kindling, a 40 watt light bulb – and one of her nieces calls to see how she is.
“You need something Auntie?”
She explains the situation, and before her niece can volunteer, she laughs. “Your dad woulda ran that out to me after he got off work, and I’d pay him back with a plate of something he liked. I guess that account is closed, huh? Can’t bother young folk like I did these old folk.”
Her niece responded, “auntie, as long as we hear, your account aint closing. Whatever Daddy woulda done for you, we can do for you too.”