How can someone so little
be bigger than life?
I told her she was the toughest little piece of leather
I'd ever met.
She'd look down, purse her lips
together to make a sort-of grin,
and say, “You do what you have to do.”
She nearly made it to 96.
She was no bigger than a little spark
of fire from two sticks scraped together.
But she could sure make things burn.
Her little spark made her next-door neighbor burn with anger
and hostility.
Her little spark made her renters burn with
compliance and obedience.
Her little spark made her friends burn with loyalty.
Her little spark made her family
burn either with their allegiance to
her
Or their
absence from her (according to her sometimes strongly opinionated perspective).
She kept her house, her yard, her self--all by herself--
almost to the last.
Her house was her church.
Earth and dirt were her friends.
Clutter was her job.
Authentic, trustworthy people were her family.
And she rode time like a bucking
bronco,
daring it to throw her before the buzzer sounded.
She was the victor; she beat the bronco,
Dying in her boots—just like she
wanted.
After some years into their marriage,
the young husband lost his job
because of an economy that had tanked from the Great Depression.
He didn't do well.
In those days there was no medicine for the great inner depression
her husband suffered.
And so he took his own life.
But she didn't collapse. She didn't
leave home.
She readied the house for years of
boarders.
She mowed her own yard and pulled her own weeds.
She hung her clothes out on the line to
dry
right in the middle of town.
Anybody else would have quit. Moved
out. Sold the house. Maybe kicked the bucket.
She kept going.
There never was another husband.
There never were children.
She was close to her other siblings, but they had their own lives
and families.
And so she went to work for a publisher
who made telephone books.
She worked there 40 years.
Disappointment visited too often.
Disease tripped her up too many times.
Desolation gripped her soul during the
holidays each year.
But she always regained her energy.
She always rebuilt her hope.
She always resisted the darkness that
sought to consume her.
She was opinionated, loving, sharp-tongued,
merciful,
A person of humility--yet she stopped at no expense for the quality she liked.
She was full of stories and sometimes gossip.
There were times of cake, coffee, homemade
spaghetti sauce, and spice tea.
There were times of asking about my family, my friends, my work, my feelings.
In the 31 years that we were friends, what year did I begin to tell her I
loved her?
I can't remember.
It was awkward.
She was not affectionate or verbal
about all that kind of thing.
But her love was sterling-silver real.
After all our time of talking (which
was mostly me listening
and her talking),
I'd scoot the kitchen chair back from
the giant table in the little kitchen
and walk over to hug her bye.
In the later years
It felt like I was hugging a bag of
bones.
“I love you,” I'd say.
“iloveyoutoo” she'd say all shoved
together in a hurry.
She gave me her best, her most.
I had no idea I would miss her this
much.
I sure do love you, Mrs. Lawrence.
 |
Inez H. Lawrence Dec. 21, 1919--Sept 11, 2015
Nashville, TN
|
