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To Capture Peace
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To Capture Peace |
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Skyfyre Senior Member
since 1999-08-15
Posts 1906Sitting in Michael's Lap 
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If comfort had a fragrance, it would be hers. She smelled of clean clothes, freshly pressed; of tea brewing and cookies warm from the oven. On gardening days, she wore the perfume of fragrant roses and fertile earth. You would never find her without a rosary, nor would a day pass that she did not spend at least two hours in prayer. Her ritual became mine; at precisely the same time every afternoon, when the Florida sun was too warm for her gardening, the house would fall silent as though in reverence. Unfailingly, I would find her seated in her accustomed spot in the darkened living room, rosary in hand, holding a hushed conversation with God. She spoke little, but when she did, her voice was always quiet, always kind – she never spoke in anger. In fact, on those rare occasions when she was upset, she barely spoke at all. Though hers was a passive anger, when it arose, the child I was had never wanted anything more than to be back in her good graces. She had that effect on us all; a frown from her was like an angel’s disapproval. Thankfully, it was not in her nature to frown, and she seldom did so. Her spirit was one of joy and peace; to me, she was an icon that represented everything that was good about home and family. Being a child whose family life was perpetually in turmoil, it seemed to me that there was nothing more precious. Though the world be in chaos, I knew that I could sit at her feet and listen to stories of my mother’s childhood, or my grandmother’s, or her own – or perhaps just gather some pearls of wisdom as they fell quietly from her lips. So long as there was her, there was refuge. Her name was Elizabeth, but to be truthful, I never knew it until I was well into my teens. The name I knew her by embodied everything she was, and everything I loved her for: we called her “Baba,” which was literally “Grandmother” in her native Slovak. She had been eighty-six when I was born, the first of many great-grandchildren. I grew up and older, as did my many cousins – but she was timeless, unchanging. Her large hands were ever soft, bearing no evidence of many years of housework; her smile was always gentle, and her pleasant accent and broken English were like priceless relics of a bygone past. She was a piece of living history, carefully wrapped in a warm, beloved container. When we celebrated her hundredth birthday, I thought nothing of the implications of her great age. Though I was fourteen, and wiser in the ways of the world than I should have been at that age (or so I thought), where Baba was concerned I was still a young child, sitting at her feet and begging stories. There was something about her that made her seem eternal, and that quality kept at least that one fragment of my youth frozen in time. It never occurred to me that she was mortal. A few weeks after her hundredth birthday in mid-November, she fell ill. I was perplexed at what seemed to be an excess of concern on the part of my family members; it was just a little cold, I thought, it would pass. She was a vibrant, healthy woman, despite her years: she still cooked and cleaned with the very best of them. She’d not stay sick for long, I joked, else my grandmother’s house would fall to ruin. A mere week later, she was hospitalized with pneumonia. My grandmother was on the verge of a nervous breakdown; the whole family addled about with grim faces or barely-contained tears. They looked like a company of mourners, as though she were already dead. Their hopelessness was infectious; the illusions of my childhood were quickly eroding, and I began to consider the possibility that Baba might not go on forever. It was the most sobering thought I had ever had. My grandmother’s house had never seemed more empty. The woman who had once seemed larger than life was small and frail in the stark whiteness of the hospital bed. The air of quietude she had always exuded still clung to her, but it only served to make her seem more out-of-place in these sterile halls of human infirmity. She was a delicate flower, fighting for her life in a field made bare by winter. And she was losing. “Please, Dorka,” she pleaded with her daughter, “I don’ want to die here. Tek me home, please. I vant to go home.” Her skin was covered with bruises and tears from the IV needles; her eyes were misted, her breath was shallow and her voice a mere whisper. She complained of the “beatings” for which the staff woke her up in the middle of the night, which were part of her respiratory therapy. She was frightened, and in pain, and all she wanted was to go back to the only place she had ever known as home for the last 32 years, and die with some measure of dignity among those who loved her. Finally, her condition improved enough that the doctors allowed her to go home, trusting the family to keep up with her therapy and care. It was the first smile I had seen on her face in weeks. Leaving the impartial sobriety of the hospital behind, we carried Baba home just in time for Christmas decorating. The house bent to embrace her as soon as she arrived home, and a spark of her former brightness returned. She sank into her bed with a sigh of contentment, and slept peacefully for the first time since her illness began. It seemed that things would be as they were once again. Baba was forever. That night, my younger cousin and I decorated the Christmas tree with tender care. It was truly beautiful: a portrait of perfection in silver and blue, hung with strings of pearls, silver angels, and frosted-glass icicles. Suffused with pride, we watched as my grandfather helped Baba from her room to view our creation. She smiled and gasped when she saw it, and tears formed in the corner of her soft brown eyes. She sat in her prayer-seat gazing at the tree, which was reflected threefold in mirrored corner. With occasional pauses for breath, she told us all about childhood Christmases in Hungary, where the ornaments were cookies baked by mother and decorated by children. It was almost magical, watching this earthbound angel speaking quiet tales of peace, her face softly lit by the twinkling Christmas lights. She was still ill, and so was easily tired; soon we helped her back to bed to rest. As she made her way back down the hall to her room, she paused to do her “exercises:” stretching her arms and legs slowly, as though to assure us that all was well. Still basking in the lingering warmth of her presence, I took to my bed as well. I was awakened by the panicked wailing of my grandmother, who burst into my room in tears, shouting, “Oh God we’re going to lose her, we’re going to lose her!” Still addled by sleep, it took a moment for me to discern exactly what she was referring to – then, I was instantly awake. With my heart in my throat, I covered the distance between my room and Baba’s in three steps. What I saw there will forever remain burned into my memory. My grandfather was at Baba’s bedside, her head cradled in his arm. He held an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, tears streaming down his face as he begged her to breathe. My grandmother was in the corner, her hands covering her mouth, sobbing “Oh Mom, oh Mom … “ -- her eyes pleaded, imploring her mother to live. I stood at the doorway, looking on in shocked disbelief. My grandfather saw me then, and ordered me to take my grandmother and leave the room, his face grim. I could not comprehend his words; I was riveted to the spot, my eyes fixed on Baba’s beloved face. She is going to die. The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, nearly stopping my heart with the finality of the words. Baba’s eyes were watching a blank corner, almost as though she saw something there. Her eyes then met my gaze for a moment, turning at last to my grandmother. It seemed that she smiled behind the plastic mask. Raising a trembling hand, she waved goodbye. * * * * * * * The rest of that night was steeped in nightmare, punctuated by the hysterical wails of my grandmother, to whom Baba had meant everything. The EMT’s had arrived much too late, and their resuscitation attempts seemed sacreligious as fragile bones broke under the pressure of CPR. I could not bring myself to believe that the colorless husk on the floor was my Baba, who had always been so full of life. It was that, I think, that kept me from crying as I watched their fruitless efforts. The funeral went by in a blur; she was buried in Pittsburgh, beside her husband and eldest daughter, both of which had died many years earlier. The only time I cried was when they closed the casket, and I knew I would never again see her face. I was numb as they lowered her into the ground, watching the snowflakes settling on the silver casket. Gazing around at the massive gathering of mourners, I thought of how she once said that she hoped it would not snow when she was buried, for she feared no one would come. Smiling, I wondered if she could see how wrong she was. * * * * * * * * Every year at Christmas, I remember her. Not in her death, as I know she would not want to be remembered that way; instead, I remember her life in all its blessed richness. I remember a woman who was a mother and grandmother before all else; who was a fountain of wisdom and of peace, and a pillar of goodness and grace. I remember a soul equally versed in labor and in laughter, in toil and in tenderness. And closing my eyes, I can still hear her whispered prayers. Merry Christmas, Baba. You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end. |
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| © Copyright 1999 Linda Anderson - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
I can't stop the tears! This is beautiful. A lovely tribute! |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
Kess, you have blessed us with this masterful telling. I got goose bumps the farther and farther that I read. This is beautifuly sad and so wrought with love that I feel overwhelmed. Amazing. |
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DreamEvil Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 2396 |
Thank you my friend for giving me something nice about Christmas to remember. Now and forever, my heart hears ~one voice~. DreamEvil© ------------------------------------------------------- "Either kill me or take me as I am, because I'll be damned if I ever change..." Count Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade (Marquis de Sade) |
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Terrina Kethryveris Member
since 1999-12-06
Posts 53USA |
Dear friend you tear at my heart strings with this. I feel your loss and your pain. Well done. Terri Truth be known, fantasy is much more appealing than reality. |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
What a wonderful, sorrowful piece, I have shed no few tears myself for your writing. Your love is so well written into this that it seems tangible. What an incredible tribute you have written. Incredible. In flames I shall not be consumed, but reborn. -- Abrahm Simons |
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JennyLee Senior Member
since 1999-09-01
Posts 1461Northwestern, NJ. |
Kess, I was carried away with the reverence of this piece. Lovely!! Jennifer |
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Honeybee Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-26
Posts 5372Ontario, CANADA |
Skyfyre, this is a beautiful, touching piece. It reminded me of my Grandma. Believe me, I know all too well how it feels to lose someone who is irreplaceable, your story is a heartfelt and well-written tribute. Thank you for sharing it with us. Take care, Melissa Honeybee  |
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poetry_kills Senior Member
since 1999-12-04
Posts 549new orleans |
skyfyre: *sniffle* this is touching and brilliantly written... i'm certain "Baba" would have been touched deeply to read of just how much you cared for her... i also find inspiration in your words and in your strength... not to remember my loved ones in their deaths, but rather in their lives  ) thank you...sincerely, jerome the melancholy priest Disarm you with a smile And leave you like they left me here To wither in denial The bitterness of one who's left alone --[billy corgan]-- |
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