Shorty

Hesitation and numbness are the predominant sentiments I remember from when she passed. Oh, not that those are emotions, exactly. But when grief overwhelms, and becomes too great, every decision is hesitation, every feeling vaguely numb.

When the matriarch of a family dies, there are so many decisions, so many feelings. Never mind that most of the decisions had been made a decade before. Each step is part of the process, laid out before us. We proceed as expected because it is simply what one does during these times.

Family rarely seen and unlikely to congregate again once dispersed, this final concluding time, held together by the stories of 102 years.

Someone always had just one more tale. Even Shorty herself. She didn’t us she’d been an inadvertent rumrunner during Prohibition until well after she’d passed a hundred. The beer in her hand might have helped the story escape.

Even laughter only leaves one exhausted, carrying on because that’s what you do after someone leaves. Our rock, our center, had left us behind.

Exhaustion carries you through the whole process. The only time it lifted was when we’d walked into the funeral home, a group of mourners, and heard her voice. A mistake, I’d hoped, and knew it was futile even as I yearned.

When you’re old, you see, the Library of Congress takes an interest in your stories, and records them. I still can’t bring myself to listen, refused to pay attention to her digitized words. My copy remains unopened on my computer’s desktop. The thought of hearing her voice again causes a permanent hesitation.

And now I find myself standing in front of her secretary, the antique-style reddish wood shining under yellowed light. Inside I know I’ll find her spidery handwriting, legible and perfect, the product of Catholic schools and her own experience as a teacher.

My hand is on the handle, and still I pause.

***

Shorty was my grandmother, who passed several years ago just shy of 102. She lived all of five minutes down the road, and remains one of my favorite people. Wherever she is, I fully expect she is ballroom dancing.

The Library of Congress program is called StoryCorps. My mother did play the recording at the funeral home, and forgot to warn anyone. My brother and I both heard the recording, decided grandma was a zombie, and freaked out.

I still can’t bring myself to listen to her stories. They’re waiting for me, when I’m ready.

Thank you, Becky Jones, for letting me share a small bit of her with you for this week’s Odd Prompt. “She stood in front of her grandmother’s secretary (the furniture piece, not the person) and took a deep breath. There was no knowing what the old lady had stashed in there. Reaching out her hand she grasped the handle and pulled…”

My prompt of “Failure is a powerful motivator to learn. But sometimes…” went to Cedar Sanderson, who wrapped up the perambulating hatrack this week in a fantastic climax. I can’t wait to see it published!