Friday, March 16, 2018

"Jane's Birds" by Sara Cuse



Tissues, hot tears, gentle chokes of words never said and gratitude never given.
I was a mess.

We left that Friday night. The ride was long, but the sobs remained muted in lieu of the laughs and memories filling the car. It was March. Chilly still- Pennsylvania weather. The salt on the ground let out a satisfying crunch as we made our way out from the enclosed doors of our newfound safe haven into the wind and bite of a reunion no one wanted to attend.

My flats chewed at my ankle until it was red and raw– such a perfect state of miserable for the weekend ahead. The gentle crunch of snow and ice and weather came to a stop as we stepped up the wooden staircase and through posts large enough to hold the sky. The house lights created a dim glow on our faces as we crawled inch by inch to the wooden door with an elegant doorknob. A man welcomed us in, dressed in black, asked to take our coats. I left my phone in my pocket; I would not be needing it, nor did I have pockets in my dress. To the left of the doorway was a massive coat closet. It makes sense. This place can never be continuously busy, yet when the time comes I imagine hundreds can flood those this heavy door. It is a small town, after all.

To the right was an office, and before me a staircase. No stairs for this event. With townspeople as old as the revolution and families as swollen and stagnant as these, the upstairs was left vacant. Dry smiles and wet eyes emerged as a result of our arrival. We were lead down a hallway into a room- sans windows- filled to the brim with flowers of every kind and windchimes. I scanned the room for birds, birdhouses, feathers, trees, anything. Nothing.
.  .  .

Saturday morning was not anticipated. This Saturday morning.

What were we doing here?

We got there early, as expected. 12 feet shuffled into the massive doorway once again, greeted by the man doorman, same suit, same broken smile from too many years of seeing melancholy into this house. The windowless room was dimmed; there were rows of chairs set up facing the back of the room.
There she was: hair curled, best blouse, color in her cheeks I had never seen before. Her wedding rings sparkled in the spotlight shining down onto her like she was an angel. She was an angel.
Family and friends from far away and far too close trickled in. Empty pleasantries. I did not know any of them, but they all knew about me. I sat down in an empty chair, of course in the front row, to take it all in. I watched every person march down the aisle and shake hands, sorrow on their faces. They all knew her. They all knew me. This town was as tightly knit as her favorite sweater, the one with flowers and birds on it. Nobody skipped a beat.

Things eventually quieted down. People took their seat; mine next to me and theirs next to theirs. The man in black stood before us, books in hand, heart on his sleeve. He started to speak. Each word made the pool in my eyes grow until it was an ocean, overflowing with sentiment and memories. The looks around the room made my heart heavier with every nose blown and tear wiped. He sat down and welcomed another up, from the front row of course. She read us poems and reminisced on their time together, their time apart, and all the time in between. I listened patiently with intense ears and a growing need to soak in every recollection. I tried to pair the two together: what I knew and what I was learning.

We made our rounds from the back of the room to the crowds of people to the sofa chairs surrounding the television. A slideshow of pictures played, all of them showcasing happier times and sunnier days. I cannot say I recognized the lady in those pictures, grin as wide as the sun and eyes twinkling with humor. I saw her as a young lady, as a mother. That smile never faltered, but it was a smile I did not know, a smile that was not familiar to me. I saw her with her friends, sat at the table with cookies or drinks or kids. I saw her with her kids, too. In church, at school, at home: next to the fireplace, the big couch, the bay window that seemed all too foreign to me now. I circled the room, conversation to conversation, picking up bits and pieces of a woman so renowned yet so distant from me.

I tried to recall her smile– in the last few years. It had an unapologetic, almost childlike amusement to it. I could picture her eyes staring up at me: dainty, but a blue the color of the ocean. The laugh lines spoke almost as much as she did, never quiet, never holding back.

I found myself going back to the slideshow. The pictures of days this town chose to remember, to cling to. I never knew the woman in these pictures, but everyone else did. They knew me, they knew her, I was the one out of my element. It was a small town, after all.

People began to file out. One could only spend so many hours in that room, no matter how dressed up with flowers. Soon it was just us, our 12 feet standing before the spotlight, silence. Hands rubbed my back from hugs not long enough and tears stained my shoulder, mine or not. 8 feet made their way towards the hallway, the office, the grand doorway. 4 feet stood before the flowers, the lights, the perfect lipstick and sparkly earrings and eyes closed. My eyes closed. Tears travelled down my cheeks to my chin, down my neck to my sweater. Pennsylvania weather. She looked peaceful, no grin plastered that I did not recognize, but a blank expression, a humbled expression. Only one light remained in the dim, now dark room. The shined white reflected, illuminating my flats, my dress, her belongings. I was handed her bracelet, the one I made her, the one she kept at her bedside, no matter where she was living. Ribbon and beads. Flower beads. Purple. I wiped the remaining tears from my ducts and placed it right next to her. Side by side, now forever.

I was not okay.

My eyes made their last rounds. Her face, her bed, the flowers. By her feet sat a bouquet- roses and buds and ribbon.

And attached to that beautiful bouquet, all those vibrant flowers reminding us all what she was not anymore, was a purple pastel ribbon, thick enough to allow us to see the writing from the back of the tight, yellow room.

Grammy Jane.

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