Bertice Rachel

About four years ago, I was enrolled in an English course, and was given a paper to write. I don't remember the parameters, but what I wrote is one of the few things in my life of which I am deeply proud. I just entered a contest on an online writing site, and I used that paper. I realized it really belongs on my blog, and so I will share it.

My grandmother was a delightful woman who taught me about the souls of flowers and the chubby knees of babies. She cussed like a sailor and baked like a demon. From her I learned to make the best gingerbread cookies and why my family is so hilariously dysfunctional. Grandma was 88 years old and in her prime. She lived alone, cooked all of her meals, and still found the energy to set out bulbs each spring and fall. While this isn't a story about her life, it is her story, and I would like you to know it.

I have many brothers and sisters. Eight to be exact, but it feels like only two. Except for one sister above and one below me, the remaining six are more like distant cousins or uncles. I feel for those two women a sisterhood that goes beyond the ties of blood or being raised in the same household. Both are kindred spirits in varying, unique ways. I believe in and am constantly in search of “kindred spirits,“ women made from the same fabric as I am. When Grandma passed away suddenly mere days before the birth of my older sister’s daughter, I experienced the profound sorrow, Godly joy, and self-realization that only our kindred spirits can help us achieve.

My life had already begun a transition when I moved from my childhood home in Texas to the mountains of Utah. I was escaping a broken engagement and bad memories. It was my first time away from home and family. I missed my sisters terribly, as well as my older one's children. These were boys that had lived with us most of their lives, boys that shared a large part of my heart. My sister was also expecting a daughter when I left. I felt this deeply, as well as leaving my grandmother, who had some lonely spells. She thought I wasn't doing the right thing, leaving. But I knew I had to go, and that leaving pieces of my heart behind was necessary. Days grew to months, and I was accustomed to school, roommates, and living on my own.

One day I felt a pinch of guilt that I had not sent Grandma a letter in a while. I'll never forget that Tuesday afternoon in July. I remember the window was letting in a soft breeze as I sat to write. As my pen made contact with the paper, my hand stopped at "Dear...” I could not write "Grandma." Instead, I felt I should write to Brenda, a woman at church that I loved dearly. She had recently lost her eight-year old granddaughter to cystic fibrosis. A voice in my head said Brenda needed the letter. It didn't even seem necessary to write both of them. I wouldn't realize until later that my grandmother wouldn't have received the letter. She would be dead.

That Friday I was completing training of a new telemarketing job and it was my first night on the phones. I was doing well, but was nervous and on edge. I was thankful when a woman I did not know came to my station and turned off my phone. I finished my call, and as I did, my heart quickened when I saw a note with the name, "Ashley," my expectant sister. I just knew she had had the baby, and this was her calling to let me know. Upon seeing my expression, the stranger said, "No, this isn't good news." I was taken into an office and given the phone. My mind was filled with thoughts of stillbirth, or worse, and I was glad to hear Ashley's voice. She didn't mince words, but she spoke slowly. "Kelli...Grandma died."

Her neighbors had noticed she hadn't picked up her morning paper and called my dad. He and Ashley went over. He had to break in. There they found her.

It was arranged by my brother to fly me home. I had hoped to escape the viewing; I still don't like to see bodies of the departed. But I wasn't able to avoid it. It didn't help that she looked like melting plastic. I was therefore more than glad when my nephew became terrified and I escorted him out of the room. Grandma was laid to rest, and we all settled down to disbelief, resignation, and expectation. The paradox of sorrow and expectation: The baby girl we'd been waiting for would be here in a few days. I know now she, Chloe, waited around a while to be with her great grandmother. I have no doubt they walked in gardens together and talked about family. And about bringing me home.

Two days after the funeral, Chloe entered our lives. The feeling in the room when that baby girl came into this world was overpowering. I felt the presence of angels. I believe Grandma was there to leave Chloe with a blessing, and a farewell to her granddaughters, her sisters.

I went to her house the following winter. The house was about to sell, but I had some unfinished business with it. As I dug in the rock-hard, frozen soil for the bulbs she had raised her entire life, my fingers grew so numb they began to hurt. But I took home the yellow iris, the red Madonna lily, and the orange daffodil. I knew their souls. They bring my grandmother with them as they bloom each spring. And every time I see them, I feel the sorrow, which turns to joy, and I know myself better, the self I have forgotten throughout the year.