Empty
The call came during the meal.
We were gathered at rough benches and a long wooden table in the unfinished kitchen of the old farmhouse. Did I know, somehow, twelve years old, what that call meant?
How in God’s earth does a man sit back down and go through the motions of a meal, when that call has been to tell him of the death of his mother? And then why tell his little girls to get into the pick-up truck and drive us to a nearby empty farm, to a barn, used only for hay storage? Why take us to a secret place to speak one sentence? “Your grandmother has died.” Why? Was the grief and her death to be kept from the rest of the family?
We were gathered at rough benches and a long wooden table in the unfinished kitchen of the old farmhouse. Did I know, somehow, twelve years old, what that call meant?
How in God’s earth does a man sit back down and go through the motions of a meal, when that call has been to tell him of the death of his mother? And then why tell his little girls to get into the pick-up truck and drive us to a nearby empty farm, to a barn, used only for hay storage? Why take us to a secret place to speak one sentence? “Your grandmother has died.” Why? Was the grief and her death to be kept from the rest of the family?
Do not speak of it. No tears. Ignore them, and they will stop flowing.
It was all warm sunlight pouring through wavy glass windows, playing a pattern with the marching squares of a pastel quilt. Clean, warm, and familiar. Collections of books, pennants, dolls, horses, pictures, small stones. Rag rugs on creaking, polished wooden floors. Leather-bound Bible on the table. My grandmother Dorothy’s house.
And here it is: cold and dark room, unfinished walls. No closet. No curtains. Just the bed and the dresser. Night sounds. Harsh reality. My father’s farm.
It was all warm sunlight pouring through wavy glass windows, playing a pattern with the marching squares of a pastel quilt. Clean, warm, and familiar. Collections of books, pennants, dolls, horses, pictures, small stones. Rag rugs on creaking, polished wooden floors. Leather-bound Bible on the table. My grandmother Dorothy’s house.
And here it is: cold and dark room, unfinished walls. No closet. No curtains. Just the bed and the dresser. Night sounds. Harsh reality. My father’s farm.
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