Indian Summer

"The air is perfectly quiescent and all is stillness, as if Nature, after her exertions during the Summer, were now at rest." John Bradbury, 1817.

I vaguely remember her face. Her smile. Her words. Her voice. Her favorite colors. Most information was second hand. Casual conversation whispered beyond our youthful ears. "She was so beautiful. So much promise, Marg." They would often tell my grand. "And that Kim, well, she's just like her." I'd often smile, as I too wanted to be beautiful. I too wanted to have so much promise. Either by her own stubbornness, or innate desire to be mysteriously present in her aloofness, her essence remained, ever present. Years later, thru faded, tattered pictures her piercing, always knowing stare, meets it's mirror in my inquisitive almond shaped eyes. While my brown pales to her hazel we meet and I know intuitively what she had always known.
September 6, 1972. My sister and I sat neatly, on the turquoise chaise lounge that overwhelmed the small living room of my great-grand's living room. Indian summer arrived early, as it was still considerable warm, and we were afforded the luxury of wearing our matching light blue sun dresses. My long scrawny legs, moist from perspiration stuck fast to the to the pleather surface. My sister and I held hands. There were so many people in the room, a sea of faces we didn't quite recognize. It was not a Sunday nor was it a holiday, so we were a little excited, believing we were going to have a party. My great-grand's house was the place we gathered for special occasions and everyone was there, except her oldest, her favorite grandchild. The one who caused her lips to curl with a broad smile every time she said her name. The one she greeted with a huge bear hug, which stole all of our breaths. My sister on my mother's hip, me close holding my mother's hand, playfully hiding behind her nursing uniform. Her namesake. Our delighted expressions soon changed when we looked toward the caramel brown in our great grand's eyes. The hint of tiny crows feet which often looked as if they were leading toward the bluish grey tint of her wavy hair to nest, were furrowed. There were tears in her eyes as she reached toward us. She shook, in a way that was not consistent with having a chill, but fear. I began to cry as I didn't understand her look. My sister began to cry because I cried. "Your mother is not coming back," she said in whispers which seemed to permeate the core of every person in the room. All eyes focused, sadly, wearily upon us. "'Cuz she's at work, right great grand? 'Cuz she's at work right?" I ask. Not truly understanding the finality in her voice. "No, baby. She' not at work, she is resting with God."