When Death Comes Again
I wished I would've been able to tell myself that when Death came again it was going to hurt less. But it didn't.
Sometimes I think having such a huge loss at a young age changed my perspective on life to being more hopeful. My earliest experience with Death labeled him as an intruder. Death had hurt me deep down into the core of my being... now he was back.
We lost my great-grandmother, Birdie Faye Brown, earlier this month and at first it didn't sink in how much this woman had meant to the family. A few of us had some rough patches with her, you see.
But she was still the reason I had a little bit of red in my hair.
It happened almost 4 years after you had died, Howard. This was a fact that kept circulating in the kitchen at Grandma's. We couldn't believe it. We kept on saying it as if it were supposed to make sense. But of course it didn't.
Right before the funeral I drove with Angel to Kansas so she could coach some little girls that were on a soccer league. They had asked her if Death happened a lot in our family. Her answer was no.
"Right, Kate?" She asked me.
A dozen little heads pulled up in tight ponytails and buns turned around to hear me. I nodded back silently.
There was one little girl on the team with hair as auburn as the maple leaves in our backyard. It made me think of Birdie.
This time with Death was different. It was more like an ache. It was a realization that I was no longer part of a fourth generation that was living. We were three now... me, Momma and Grandma.
For the funeral we all gathered at Tupelo, Oklahoma and Birdie was buried right next to her papa, Aubrey. And there next to them were rows upon rows of family history. There were Birdie's sisters, Lula Belle and Nino, her momma and some of her cousins.
After the service there was something that made its way through the air. I don't know if anyone else felt it, nor did I ask.
But as I stared down at the graves of my ancestors I thought it was like Birdie was coming home again, after all these years.
Written 9.20.17
Sometimes I think having such a huge loss at a young age changed my perspective on life to being more hopeful. My earliest experience with Death labeled him as an intruder. Death had hurt me deep down into the core of my being... now he was back.
We lost my great-grandmother, Birdie Faye Brown, earlier this month and at first it didn't sink in how much this woman had meant to the family. A few of us had some rough patches with her, you see.
But she was still the reason I had a little bit of red in my hair.
It happened almost 4 years after you had died, Howard. This was a fact that kept circulating in the kitchen at Grandma's. We couldn't believe it. We kept on saying it as if it were supposed to make sense. But of course it didn't.
Right before the funeral I drove with Angel to Kansas so she could coach some little girls that were on a soccer league. They had asked her if Death happened a lot in our family. Her answer was no.
"Right, Kate?" She asked me.
A dozen little heads pulled up in tight ponytails and buns turned around to hear me. I nodded back silently.
There was one little girl on the team with hair as auburn as the maple leaves in our backyard. It made me think of Birdie.
This time with Death was different. It was more like an ache. It was a realization that I was no longer part of a fourth generation that was living. We were three now... me, Momma and Grandma.
For the funeral we all gathered at Tupelo, Oklahoma and Birdie was buried right next to her papa, Aubrey. And there next to them were rows upon rows of family history. There were Birdie's sisters, Lula Belle and Nino, her momma and some of her cousins.
After the service there was something that made its way through the air. I don't know if anyone else felt it, nor did I ask.
But as I stared down at the graves of my ancestors I thought it was like Birdie was coming home again, after all these years.
Written 9.20.17
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