That thought left when I realized the pathetic garbles were produced from my own vocal chords. I clamped my dried lips shut and stared down at the worn out hymnal I held in my lap. Even though I couldn’t see, I knew it was opened to Come Unto Me, my mother’s favorite hymn.
No tears were left to cry. I’d shed so many during the last four hours that my tear ducts were empty. Earlier, when the floodgates opened and the wetness left my eyes, my contacts had been displaced under the deluge of salty liquid. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see. I wasn’t looking at anything anyway. Life had lost all its color. Everything was drab and lifeless, no vibrancy left in my shattered world. I was numb now, unable to focus visually or mentally.
Everything was gone. In less than three weeks, my life had undergone a paradigm shift. Nothing was the same. I had been stripped of all the titles that I used to hold—the ones that molded and shaped me into the woman I once was. Melody Marie Basset Dickinson—wife of Jack Dickinson and daughter of the late Jerome Basset—and now, the late Lucinda Basset. Wife and daughter had been replaced with widow and orphan.
Another funeral to plan. Another round of familiar faces stained with tears would walk by while they whispered their words of condolences to my deaf ears. Their hushed words spoken to each other as they thanked their lucky stars that their own lives weren’t as screwed up as mine. Once the service was over, they would all leave and return to their normal lives and I would be left alone to navigate a whole new existence.
Alone.
The hospital chapel was quiet. I tried to recall when I arrived, but couldn’t. Time had lost all meaning to me the second Dr. Hertzog informed me of Mom’s passing from a massive heart attack. He mumbled his condolences, but the words weren’t comprehended by my ringing ears. A fleeting memory of Regina’s soft sobs and warm hands passed by, followed by a burst of color as I fled the waiting room and ran through endless corridors of the hospital.
Mom and Dad were gone. My husband was gone. My two babies were gone. All that remained for me now was to continue to be Melody Dickinson, paralegal. That’s it. A life filled with billing, typing, pleadings and filings. I wouldn’t go home to a husband and be his wife any longer, for my house was empty. Couldn’t pick up the phone and talk to my mother about my day or share precious mother-daughter moments ever again. When was the last time I told her I loved her? Or how much I adored the fact that she had been my mother? Did I tell her what an incredible woman I thought she was and what an honor it had been to be her daughter?
Oh, God, who will I be now?
My brain and heart seemed disconnected, like the lines had been severed. I felt no anger, no pain, no guilt, no remorse, no sadness or regrets. I couldn’t feel anything inside the black void that I was trapped in. I felt my fingers and my limbs, but couldn’t seem to control them.
I just continued to sit, locked away inside my mental tomb.
There was no need to ask God why this had happened. I already knew the answer. Mom hadn’t been in the best of health and the events of the last two weeks pushed her fragile body over the edge. I thought that I’d been doing her a kindness by keeping her shielded from my pain and not falling apart every time I saw her, or leaning on her for strength like I did Regina and Kendal. I’d put on a brave face, smiled, laughed and reassured her I would be okay, that Jack and I would weather our marital hurricane.
When Jack died, all the bravado disappeared. Everything changed—for all of us. I tried to put on the mask of control around Mom, but how insensitive and stupid was that decision? She had loved Jack from the first moment I brought him home to meet her and Dad. His tragic passing, compounded with the circumstances that surrounded it, had just been too much for her aging body to withstand.
Had I made the right decision to shelter her? Should I have let my true thoughts and emotions out so she would feel more comfortable releasing her own in front of me? If I’d given her the chance to extract some of her own pain, shouldering some of it myself, would this have happened?
I would never know—and that was the hardest pill to swallow.
Choices. Decisions. Thousands made each day. What to wear. When to get up. What to eat. Friends to make. Projects to be completed. Who we talked to and what we said. What we shared with others and what we kept to ourselves. Who we decided to love and who we chose to hate. Whether we served God and listened to His words, His warnings, heeded His wisdom. Whether we stayed on the moral pathway of life or strayed. Each choice, each temptation, affected not only our own lives, but those around us. Sometimes, the effects weren’t seen for years; other times, they were immediate.
My choices in life ignited a long fuse that reached out and wrapped itself around the people I loved the most. Its slow burn ignited stragglers from the lives of others around me and now we were all burned. No one was left but Regina. If anything happened to her, I would collapse from the inside and wither away to nothing.
"Death always comes in threes, my dear. My child is now with me, and so is Jack and your daddy. It’s quiet here—peaceful. You should see Jack. He loves the babies. Holds them all the time. We are just one big, happy family. We only need one thing to complete our happiness. You. Come, join us. Don’t be shy. We always have room, even for the most grievous of sinners like you."
“Melody?”
Kendal’s voice was a welcomed reprieve from the dismaying voice of my Meemaw in my head. Insanity was around the next bend in the road, but for now I was hearing the voice of the man whose life I’d ruined less than three days ago inside my mind. Satan does enjoy his petty torments, I decided.
“Melody? I’m sorry I just now arrived. I hope it’s okay, but Regina called me and told me what happened. Please, don’t be upset with me for comin’, but I just couldn’t stay away.”
I heard the creak of the pew and felt Kendal ease his body down next to mine. In my mind, I acknowledged his presence, yet I couldn’t seem to make my body physically respond.
“Honey, Regina and I are here for you, ready to take you home. Come on, it’s late. You need to get some rest.”
It took a few minutes, but I found enough coordination to make my lips move. In a raspy voice, I began to sing again, “I am meek and lowly, come, and trust my might.”
Kendal’s warm arms encircled me from my left and Regina murmured from my right, her fingers stroking my hair. Both joined me for the next chorus, their voices just as choked up and out of tune as my own. As we started to sing it the third time, I lost track of the words. My tongue seemed too large for my parched mouth. My vision spun and the grays surrounding me started to turn black. I tried to pull myself out of the vortex, but it was too late.
The smell of fresh summer rain, gardenias and apple pie settled over me, covering my yellow sundress and exposed skin with their sweet aromas. The late afternoon sun caused the humidity-laden air to exude languid balls of steam across our front yard. Miniature rainbows danced across the damp grass, sending multi-colored prisms bouncing off the tender blades in all directions.
I heard the gentle creak of the aged rocking chair and turned my head in the direction of the sound. My mother’s eyes stared out across the beautiful display of nature while she shelled the big bowl of black-eyed peas in her lap. Her thick, auburn hair was loose for a change, and cascading in waves around her shoulders, the ends beginning to curl from the humidity. She was still wearing her black dress from Meemaw’s funeral and sweat had formed around her temples and neck from the heavy frock.
Momma’s face looked tired. I didn’t know how to react to the sadness that had replaced her usual smiling face. I had never seen her cry until three days ago and it seemed like once she started, she couldn’t stop. The more people came, the more she cried. Now that the visitors were gone, her sobs had left as well, replaced with a few stray tears trickling down her face.
Once all the people at the house had left, Daddy had made me change. He then sent me outside with instructions to start shelling peas and
enjoy the cooling rain that he sensed approaching. My six-year-old mind, focused on trying to comprehend what it had witnessed, didn’t think to ask questions.
All I knew for sure was that Momma and most every other female member of my small family had cried today and the men, including my father, hadn’t said many words. Everyone had been dressed in their best Sunday clothes and it wasn’t near Sunday. Instead of the pastor standing alone at the front of the church to deliver his sermon, he stood to the side and spoke in a low voice, pointing several times to the shiny box that my Meemaw slept in. The only familiar thing that had occurred was when a few of the ladies I recognized from church stood up and sang Amazing Grace.
Three days ago, when the pastor came to the house, it was the first time in my life I had been truly scared. Because when he finished talking to Momma on the porch, she began to scream, “No! No, she can’t be gone! I need her. Oh, Lord! Why?” Doc Robinson came to see Momma, and Daddy told me to go outside and find our dog Crackers and give him a good brushing. I may have been young, but I knew something was wrong, so Daddy didn’t have to ask me twice. I had stayed outside until Cracker’s coat was as shiny as a new penny and Momma’s crying had stopped.
I had overheard enough whispered words during the next two days to understand that my Meemaw had died, but I didn’t know what that meant and was too afraid to ask anyone. People were always coming and going now, bringing enough food to last us a year. I didn’t understand what “paying respects” meant, but since there was so much food, I figured it must have something to do with eating. Funny thing was, no one ate any food but me.
For the first time in days, the house was quiet. Daddy had left to take my cousins from El Dorado to the train station, so it was just me and Momma. I stole a peek at her while she shelled her peas and noticed her face was dry, and decided it was safe to ask her a question. “Momma, what does ‘paying my respects’ mean?”
“Child, come here and sit with me a spell. I’ve got some explainin’ to do and I’m sorry I didn’t do it before.” Momma set her bowl of peas on the floor next to her and motioned for me to come over and sit with her. She wiped her purple-stained fingers across her damp face, leaving a small trail of violet on her forehead.
Eager to be close to her again, I hopped from my perch on the swing, trotted across the front porch and nestled into her soft lap. She produced a small brush from the folds of her dress and began to comb my unruly hair, something she hadn’t done for days. I had done the best I could while getting ready for church earlier, but I couldn’t reach the back very well. Her warm, patient fingers worked through the knots.
“Well, honey, when someone passes away, friends and family stop by to tell those left behind they are sorry for the loss of their loved one. Like your Aunt Junie and Uncle Bert. They came all the way from Dallas to say goodbye to Meemaw and tell us how sorry they were for our loss.”
“Passes away?”
“It’s a kind way of saying that someone has died, honey.”
“Oh, like the time when Daddy told Aunt Junie that her new dress made her look ‘as fine as frog hair’ when he really meant it was ugly?”
Momma’s gentle laugh made my heart sing. I was proud that I’d made her smile and laugh for the first time in three days. “Sort of. We’ve talked about usin’ our manners before and how sayin’ ugly things about others will hurt them. It’s sort of like that, honey. Passin’ away from this life on to the next is much more pleasin’ to the ears and easier on the heart than sayin’ someone died.”
I thought about that for a minute. “Is Meemaw in Heaven with Jesus, like what Pastor Otts talks about in church?”
“Yes dear. Meemaw has passed on and is with Jesus now.”
“When is she coming back? And how will Jesus know who she is? She left her body here.”
Momma stopped brushing my hair. I heard her clear her throat and worried that she was going to start crying again. I wanted to kick myself for making her upset.
“Baby, come on. Let’s go take a walk. I think I can explain this better if I show you.”
I slid off her lap and slipped my hand inside hers, happy that she was smiling instead of frowning. Her hair looked like it was on fire when the sunbeams hit it and I wondered why she never wore it down. She looked like an angel.
We walked through the front yard to her flower garden. She stopped in front of the plant closest to us and pointed at the grayish-brown mound on the branch to her right. “Do you remember what I told you this is?”
“Umm, it’s a bug crisa, right?”
“Close. A chrysalis.”
“Nasty worms live in it, right? Daddy said they made the chrys…chrysalis from worm spit. Gross.”
“Well, do you see any worms in there now?”
I bent down and looked closer. “No, it’s empty. Where did the worm go?”
Mom stood up and looked around the garden until she spotted what she was looking for on the bush to her right. She pointed to a delicate yellow butterfly with black dots on its wings that perched on an open gardenia bud. “Right there.”
“Momma, that’s a butterfly, not a worm!”
“Yes, it is a beautiful butterfly and true, it looks nothin’ at all like the funny little worms we seen out here a few weeks ago. But they are one in the same, I promise. You see, the worm lives its short life here in the garden, and when its time is over, it builds the chrysalis and goes to sleep inside. Once it goes to sleep, it passes on to its next life. What emerges out from the little nest here is a butterfly.”
Stunned, I looked at my momma with doubt. “You’re just joshin’ me, momma! Those ol’ slimy worms don’t have wings!”
“Oh, Melody, look! Right there—one is about to pop out! You’ll get to see the change for yourself!” Momma said, hoisting me up on her hip so I could see.
Sure enough, she was right. For the next few minutes, we watched in silent awe as the butterfly emerged from inside the dark chrysalis. It struggled to free itself from the confines of the hardened worm spit, and once freed, sat still as it’s curled up wings began to dry. I was still in doubt about Momma’s claim that it was the same creature as the worm, but I trusted my Momma’s words.
“Melody, do you think that the dainty, delicate butterfly would want to go back to bein’ a worm?”
“Oh no! It is too pretty now, plus, butterflies can fly!”
“I agree, my child. Now, think of your Meemaw’s passin’ the same way, honey. She passed on to Heaven. The body we knew her here on earth has changed, and now in Heaven…”
“She has wings! Meemaw has angel wings and can fly around in Heaven with Jesus!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, honey. Meemaw has wings now. And she is watchin’ over us from above.”
“But, she won’t come back because she likes her new wings better than walking?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Won’t she miss us? I know I miss her already. And if Meemaw has a new body and is flying around in Heaven, then why were you crying? Aren’t you happy for Meemaw?”
“Of course I’m happy for her, baby. And I know she is happy and that I will get to fly away with her one day as well. We all will, when it’s our time. I cried because I miss her and wasn’t quite ready to let her go. But my tears are gone now because I have faith in that.”
“Faith in what, Momma?”
“That I will see her again. In Heaven someday, when it is my time to sprout wings and fly. And when we are reunited, it will be forever. Just two happy butterflies flitterin’ around in the skies above. It will be that way for all of us—one day. Even you. So, don’t fret for what was inside the empty shell, darlin’ Melody. Rejoice in the glory of new life and new beginnings that emerged from it.”
Momma put me down and we walked back to the front porch to resume shelling the peas. I was still a bit confused about everything, but certain about one thing: Momma wasn’t crying anymore after she explained to me wher
e Meemaw was, and seeing her smile was all that mattered to me.
My heart fought my body’s urging to wake up. I yearned to remain in the warm, sweet spot between consciousness and sleep, basking in the comforting recollections of my childhood. My reality was too painful, and my dreams had been full of treasured memories with my Mom and Dad. The one about the day of Meemaw’s funeral was so real that I could still smell the wet rain, the gardenias and her favorite perfume—Night Jasmine.
I shifted on the couch and pulled the afghan over my head, unwilling to acknowledge the morning sun streaming through the windows downstairs. Though my heart still ached for the loss of my mother, I knew where she was and that she was happy—she had her butterfly wings at last. The journey without her and Jack would be bone-crushing lonely. I clung to the hope that the peaceful images of my youth surrounding me would carry me through the dark ones popping up. My thoughts were no longer numbed by grief or shock. The next step in the process of dealing with death wound through me: anger. I could feel the sharp vines of fury fill my veins, ensnaring me as it crawled around inside like poison. And that scared the living daylights out of me, because I didn’t want to be consumed by hatred for the person or persons responsible for destroying my world.
Thank you, Lord, for reminding me of that day. I feel You here with me. I feel Your strength float down on me, like a silken gown of love just embraced my soul in my dreams. Through the fire and through the flames, I will walk beside You—as long as in the end, I can fly with my loved ones. Please, help me overcome the fury pounding in my head. Let Your healing waters of forgiveness wash over me and snuff out the flames of wrath.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep again, so I stayed still and listened the familiar voices of Regina and Kendal and breathed in the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Part of me wanted to get up and join the living, but my body held me hostage, unwilling to move, so I remained in my warm cocoon.
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