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I was twelve years, old the baby in the family. Lilly and Theresa, my big sisters, nineteen and twenty-one were always out with their friends, so I went everywhere with Poppa and Momma. I usually made a fuss, but one look from Momma—boy, did she have a look when she was angry—and I shut up.
I opened the windows as I do every morning when I get up to look out upon a bright sun filled day. The colors of the ocean are never the same. Sometimes they are deep blue, sometimes aqua marine (my favorite color) and at other times a line of purple just across the horizon. The ocean on occasion, dredges up forest green seaweed from its hidden floor, darkening the water that noisily hits the beach head. The white caps that roll across the shore vary in size and strength depending on how rough the surf is going to be on any given day.
Seat belts are life savers in this day and age. Age being the operative word was the real challenge in this endeavor. It appeared to be a simple outing on this family reunion picnic. My daughter, Janette, who was eighteen at the time, volunteered to help me out driving my mother, age ninety, and my two cousins ages eighty five and eighty on this beautiful June day.
feigning interest politely,
“So, how are you… really?”
the voice inside
which wanted to scream
and shout and yell
and really tell.
It was a bright, breezy, unseasonably warm Sunday in late March when I pulled into the parking lot of Parker Institute for Rehabilitation and Nursing Care. Earlier that day, I had called Caroline to let her know I would be coming to see her again, and to find out how she was feeling.
“Terrible,” she growled. “I threw up all my breakfast this morning, and I haven’t had a thing to eat since,” she continued in that distinctive gravelly voice of hers.
