Much weeping had deepened Papa’s voice, coating it with the gravelly hoarseness of a sore throat.
As Papa steadied my stance on the floor, I blurted out the question I’d been most fearful of asking. “Is Caleb going to live?” I sought Mama’s face, my reluctant eyes finally agreeing to meet the penetrating sorrow in hers.
“He’s not awake yet, but he’s—”
“He’s gonna die too,” I exploded, detonated by the anguish in my heart. Turning my back on Mama, I grasped the table’s polished edge, battening myself against more of grief’s savage attacks.
“It’s too early to know, honey, but Doctor Landers says Caleb’s got more than a fighting chance.” Mama’s hands rested on my shoulders with heaviness, her magnetic fingers exerting force as they persuaded me to turn and face her.
Micah’s death had robbed Mama of her usual vivacity. She seemed older, depleted. Gone from her face was the youthful laughter that could tease the pout out of me with the wink of an eye. Staring into Mama’s face was like looking into the mirror of my soul and discovering nothing but impoverishment. It was then that the shakes streaked up my legs in a fearful rush. As tears washed Mama’s semblance into a watery mirage, she wrapped me in her arms, swaddling my twitches and spasms as only she could. The quavers were a long time leaving.
At noon the next day, we gathered on a knoll above Two-Toe Creek, more people bending the grass there than I had energy to count.
It was on this hilltop that my grandparents lay buried, along with a baby Mama had birthed three years after the twins were born. Though my little sister had never drawn breath, Mama had reverenced her life with a name: Elena Dawn Falin. It was beside her that Micah would forever rest.
“Friends, we gather today for the saddest of life’s occasions—the burial of our little brother, Micah Roan Falin. He departed this world on August 25, 1928, at the tender age of six.”
I closed my ears to the remainder of Pastor Emery’s remarks and kept them closed until Polly sang a hymn that ended the service. Leaning on my crutch a few feet from the casket, my mind gnawed on thoughts more palatable to my soul: Micah as a babe and as a toddler. For all the gladness in his heart, I’d often imagined he would grow up to be a preacher, or a song-and-dance man. He had a smile that ignited sparks. Not in my eyes, alone, but in all who got caught up in his bright burst of sunlight. In his brief six years on earth, he’d lavished more love and affection on my heart than a girl could expect from a lifetime of loving.
I’ll never kiss him good night again. The thought ripped through me like a spring twister. All I could see in the whirlwind was a lifetime without Micah. A lifetime of heartache. I heaved the scene from my mind, knowing my survival depended on keeping Micah alive in my heart. Not in accepting his death. But how could I deny the truth when he lay before me—bundled in Mama’s favorite quilt—and packaged in a box carved by Elo’s masterstroke? The answer? His death could not be denied.
Micah’s coffin leaked a familiar, intimate scent into the air; a scent that spoke of happier times and places. It smelled like the siding boards Papa used to erect our tree house in the backyard. It brought to mind cedar shanks Elo peeled and scraped to frame our chicken coop. And it reminded me of Mama’s cedar-lined closet. Though moths fled its fulsomeness, I had acquired a liking for the sharp fragrance; inhaling it during stowaway times, when I crept into the dark closet and dreamed up wild, hard-to-swallow tales.
I turned my eyes from the coffin and gazed at my family. Outwardly, they showed me no contempt, but I wondered if my failure to protect the boys would someday sift into their considerations. Would they eventually place the blame where it belonged? I glanced up at the bulwark of our family. Papa would never speak of blame. Not aloud. Nor would he
As Papa steadied my stance on the floor, I blurted out the question I’d been most fearful of asking. “Is Caleb going to live?” I sought Mama’s face, my reluctant eyes finally agreeing to meet the penetrating sorrow in hers.
“He’s not awake yet, but he’s—”
“He’s gonna die too,” I exploded, detonated by the anguish in my heart. Turning my back on Mama, I grasped the table’s polished edge, battening myself against more of grief’s savage attacks.
“It’s too early to know, honey, but Doctor Landers says Caleb’s got more than a fighting chance.” Mama’s hands rested on my shoulders with heaviness, her magnetic fingers exerting force as they persuaded me to turn and face her.
Micah’s death had robbed Mama of her usual vivacity. She seemed older, depleted. Gone from her face was the youthful laughter that could tease the pout out of me with the wink of an eye. Staring into Mama’s face was like looking into the mirror of my soul and discovering nothing but impoverishment. It was then that the shakes streaked up my legs in a fearful rush. As tears washed Mama’s semblance into a watery mirage, she wrapped me in her arms, swaddling my twitches and spasms as only she could. The quavers were a long time leaving.
At noon the next day, we gathered on a knoll above Two-Toe Creek, more people bending the grass there than I had energy to count.
It was on this hilltop that my grandparents lay buried, along with a baby Mama had birthed three years after the twins were born. Though my little sister had never drawn breath, Mama had reverenced her life with a name: Elena Dawn Falin. It was beside her that Micah would forever rest.
“Friends, we gather today for the saddest of life’s occasions—the burial of our little brother, Micah Roan Falin. He departed this world on August 25, 1928, at the tender age of six.”
I closed my ears to the remainder of Pastor Emery’s remarks and kept them closed until Polly sang a hymn that ended the service. Leaning on my crutch a few feet from the casket, my mind gnawed on thoughts more palatable to my soul: Micah as a babe and as a toddler. For all the gladness in his heart, I’d often imagined he would grow up to be a preacher, or a song-and-dance man. He had a smile that ignited sparks. Not in my eyes, alone, but in all who got caught up in his bright burst of sunlight. In his brief six years on earth, he’d lavished more love and affection on my heart than a girl could expect from a lifetime of loving.
I’ll never kiss him good night again. The thought ripped through me like a spring twister. All I could see in the whirlwind was a lifetime without Micah. A lifetime of heartache. I heaved the scene from my mind, knowing my survival depended on keeping Micah alive in my heart. Not in accepting his death. But how could I deny the truth when he lay before me—bundled in Mama’s favorite quilt—and packaged in a box carved by Elo’s masterstroke? The answer? His death could not be denied.
Micah’s coffin leaked a familiar, intimate scent into the air; a scent that spoke of happier times and places. It smelled like the siding boards Papa used to erect our tree house in the backyard. It brought to mind cedar shanks Elo peeled and scraped to frame our chicken coop. And it reminded me of Mama’s cedar-lined closet. Though moths fled its fulsomeness, I had acquired a liking for the sharp fragrance; inhaling it during stowaway times, when I crept into the dark closet and dreamed up wild, hard-to-swallow tales.
I turned my eyes from the coffin and gazed at my family. Outwardly, they showed me no contempt, but I wondered if my failure to protect the boys would someday sift into their considerations. Would they eventually place the blame where it belonged? I glanced up at the bulwark of our family. Papa would never speak of blame. Not aloud. Nor would he
Similar Books
