She passed one sweltering Louisiana day

Twenty-five years ago. 

Robert Kennedy

also died that day, 

but we didn't know until later.

We grieved hard for Maw Maw.

At six I knew 

the family would never be the same 

when things disappeared. 

First Mac-- 

that horse

old as Momma.

then the cows

the pigs

the chickens

one by one. 

And while the crops shriveled 

that sewing machine began collecting dust in my attic.

Grief was followed by blame--

Some for coming around too much

by those who rarely came 

while Paw Paw just stared. 

they said Maw Maw would roll in her grave

when Aunt Margie got pregnant 

So she married that old man

who nearly destroyed that precious girl

who couldn't tell until later.

My momma's talents are limited

to tennis 

and cooking Cajun cuisine

 playing bridge.

So Maw Maw worried-- 

Someone's got to fix things in a family 

in junior high

 I made my first "C" 

in home-ec 

learned how to make

 cheese straws

 nachos 

chocolate chip cookies 

and quiche 

but never mastered

fixing a hem 

or a button 

while that sewing machine collected dust in my attic.

Maw Maw cooked three meals a day 

the dutiful wife 

even when she was so sick 

and so big 

she could barely walk 

WHERE'S MY SUPPER WOMAN?!! 

he'd roar 

as we stared at the floor.

She would have enjoyed eating out 

just once

Momma sighs 

but he wouldn't take her. 

Last year Aunt Rosy passed

 in an old folk's home

 with eyes dulled with duller memories

 she squeezed a strange hand

 and inquired 

about the grandchild her sister adored. 

But Elizabeth never saw that girl

grow up

 graduate and run

 away to marry a man

 she would have accepted

 without an explanation.

 never held

 her great granddaughter

 who carries her name

 and still her legacy collects dust in my attic.

 What would Maw Maw think?

Does outcome

 cause her to thrash in a dark grave 

or rejoice with angels?

I wonder

 lounging on a quilt 

she built

 with her big aching heart

 humming to the gentle whirring of a machine 

that will forever collect dust in my attic.

we clasp hands and encircle her

chanting Hail Marys foreign to my Protestant ears

now an odd comfort to my withering soul.

As the blessed words

permeate the dismal darkened atmosphere

heavenly lights seem to blaze from the ceiling

while flickering candles illuminate

our tear-streaked cheeks.

Abuelito breaks

to hold her still warm

forever forgiving hands

A portrait of despair.

While our weary eyes watch the dancing numbers

cruelly rekindling our vain hopes--Or is it a sign?

Alas we realize

her spirit must depart

still we squeeze estranged hands

sadly echoing the sacred words again

again and again

fulfilling her final mission--

A broken family

joined in prayer

one last time.

Aunt Eleanor was born big

and mean

the meanest and the baddest of the bunch.

it's hard to believe.

I used to call her when loved ones were sick

or dying

and Aunt Eleanor prayed

and prayed and prayed and prayed.

And you know those people got better.

In old photos

she smiles at me

her dark eyes gleaming with mischief

(or is that something else?)

They say

when she was little

Thera would flee from her wrath

running deep into the woods

where she would kneel and pray:

"Oh Lord, please forgive my dear

sister Elner.

She does not really hate

us all

or mean those cruel things--

OUCH!

Elner let go of my hair!

You are hurting me!

I said YOU ARE HURTING ME!"

I have a nephew named John

He's got to be the baddest child ever born

nearly fell out of that boat

last May just to spite us all.

You should have seen Aunt Eleanor's dark eyes

sparkle

when he threw

a tantrum

decorated the walls

with crayons

or called someone

"stink-butt."

She liked 'em bad

My Aunt Elner.

Thera's kids

tried to tell me she was still mean

and ornery.

"No, she's not!"

I would shriek

with teeth and fists

clenching

yearning

to yank a few strands

to emphasize my point.

Don't you know that HER prayers

made my friend better?

That poor girl suffered

in that cold

sterile hospital

long enough

miles away

from two

precious boys

who wailed for the warmth

of their mother's arms

until I called Eleanor

who asked the Lord

to please send Kim home

And now she is.

Tears sting my eyes

when I remember how

poor Aunt Eleanor suffered

in another cold sterile hospital

where they poked and prod

"Ouch! You are hurting me!"

and they poked and prod

"I said, YOU ARE HURTING ME!"

So we prayed

and prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed

and we all asked the Lord

to please let Eleanor go home

And now she is.