Minew

We buried her beside the garden, at the end of a row of green beans. It was October and the beans were done, stalks and stems all brown and crispy, knocked over likely in our hurry to harvest the last of them earlier in the season. I'd eaten more than my fair share right off the plant.  Mom was there, holding Minew in a well-worn towel. Tom was there too, and me. Minew had been hit by a car on Tetroe Road, proving to us little ones that, yes, cars were dangerous, even the ones on Tetroe Road.

Mom passed her bundle to Tom, and started in with the shovel. It was a heavy, pointed shovel with a long, straight wooden handle.  Taller than me, and heavy. I wondered how deep the hole would have to be.  We stood, staring down past our rubber boots, watching the shovel pierce the earth as the hole grew.  Tom held Minew close to his chest, as if worried she would jump from his arms and escape.

"Will the beans still grow here next year?"

"Yes."

"Will they taste different?" 

"No."

Thomas glanced over at me, eyes a little watery behind his dark rimmed glasses, then looked back down at Minew in his arms. She looked to me like she was sleeping, only... stiffer, somehow.  Like that fox that was attached to my grandma’s coat – kind of stiff and krinkly, not fluid and sleek.  I remember the fox's nose was bent oddly, and the bead eyes sparked strangely from the fur.  It would have made a neat puppet, only we weren't allowed to play.  It was hard to believe the fox had been alive once; it was nothing like any foxes I had seen. Minew's fur was now matted although she had been so good at keeping it clean; her eyes were closed. I touched a paw and flinched as I felt cold, stiff skin.

I wasn't too attached to Minew; certainly not nearly as much as Tom.  I squirmed too much for her I supposed; she didn't like to come to me at all. It had eventually occurred to me that chasing her, or dreaming up ways to trick her somehow into sitting with me for just one moment just wasn't worth my effort - I always wanted more. Besides, when I was too persistent, she would bite.

When my Grandmother had died, I hadn't wanted to go to her funeral.  It was going to be uncomfortable, I thought, and sad, with people crying and stuff.  Awkward. What if I cried? Paul told me later about the sandwiches and squares that he'd had, and juice. Coffee and tea for grownups.  I did feel then like I’d missed out, but not much.  I didn’t ask him about the crying.

I remember that after she died, our living room got filled up with flowers. Carnations mostly. At first I thought they were beautiful, but then as the room slowly filled with them their scent started to bother me until I couldn’t stand it.  The smell of the carnations still make me think of dead people, of death, and of missing Grandma. All those flowers sacrificed too – all picked to eventually wither, brown and die in the living room. It didn’t seem right.

There was a prayer service before the funeral, and everyone was there.  All of my Dad's brothers, my uncles, had come from out of town; all the adults were busy, talking. I wove through the black pant legs and draped black fabric and saw the coffin up at the front of the room where my Grandma lay. They said it was a chance to say goodbye, but for me she was already gone. Her body was there but my Grandma wasn’t. Like the fox, like the flowers, like Minew. 

Death is a curious thing. I had so many questions, and many unsatisfying answers. My Grandma had died while she was away at California, and had come home in a box on a plane. I wondered about that. I thought at first she would have to stay forever in California, but Dad had said no, she would come home on a plane. I pictured her in a bed on the plane, but was corrected.  Not in a bed, in a box. I don’t know where they put her when she got home. I was wondering if she’d stay for a while in our house but that didn't happen. I don't know where she went.  I do know that after the funeral, she was buried in the cemetery, beside my Grandpa that I'd never met.

“If people go to heaven, and cats go to cat heaven, where do dead flowers and plants go?”

My question hung in the air over us for a second, then my words were caught by the breeze and scattered like the falling leaves – also dead, I realized.  I loved that smell. The smell of leaves returning back to the earth, the smell of snow on the air, of winter and endings and hibernation.

“Just back into the ground.”

The hole wasn’t that big, or deep, but it was enough. At Mom’s gesture, Tom placed Minew carefully in the hole and adjusted the towel over her lovingly. I was more sad for Tom than for Minew.  She was already gone, already in heaven, but he was here with me in the garden, missing her.  He wiped away a tear while Mom covered the hole back in with dirt.  I looked at Tom standing there, arms hanging by his sides empty now, and I reached for his arm to hold.  He looked at me again and smiled briefly, then looked back at the place in the garden that now contained Minew. I wanted to cry too but couldn't; felt guilty instead for not being able to cry for this little creature.

When the pussy willows came out along the garden the next spring, I touched them with my fingers. Cool and soft, certainly not cold. I could feel life in them, could see life in the willow bark, red and warm. I smiled, remembering Minew. Then I thought of my Grandma - I took a breath and closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth of her generous hug in the spring sunshine, hear her sweet whispers in the breeze and I felt in my heart that she was close. Death may mean I won't see her anymore, but it doesn't mean I won't think of her, or hear her voice on a warm spring breeze, when life is bursting out from the death and decay of winter.  Its simply how things work... 

Call To Dinner

I am sitting on the floor in the living room leaning back against the couch, hugging a pillow against my chest. We are wrapped up in the latest Get Smart TV episode, watching Agent 86 and Agent 99 trying to capture the bad guy in many shades of black and white TV grey.

"Monik, come and set the table!"

I am summoned into the kitchen and do as I'm told, sliding around the kitchen table in sock feet.  Our kitchen barely fits the table, brought home from the Credit Union boardroom when it was cast off.  I set a place for each of us. Little ones along the wall on the bench, Mom at the end by the kitchen stove, bigger kids along the outside where they can swoop in and out again. An easy exit. A quick escape.

On evenings when Dad is home from work, the big kids side of the table is split and Dad has his place in the middle, just like Jesus' seat at the table at the Last Supper; otherwise, the order is the same.

I climb up onto the kitchen counter to get my supplies - cups, plates. Into the big, heavy drawer for the cutlery, I try to select ones that match. Back over to the table, hurrying in order to get back to the TV, I set carefully.  I want to do it right. I take care to make sure the blade of the knife faces in, towards the plate. The spoon to the right of the knife, fork away over to the left of the knife with room for the plate in the middle. The cup above the knife. Where possible, cutlery matching for that place setting. Big brothers get the settings that don't match - they won't notice, or care, anyway. Little spoons for the bench side of the table, big spoons for the other side.

Checking on the progress of the meal, I can tell it's not  ready yet so I race back into the living room to join my brothers. Finding my spot has been taken, I don't push it this time and just slide down in the closest spot.  John wiggles over a little, but doesn't say anything; Paul is oblivious. Agent 86 is on his shoe phone and we don't want to miss anything.

"Boys, come for dinner!"

There it is, the call to the evening meal. Our family dinner. This is the call for dinner that I have heard almost every single day of all 12 years that I have been on this earth. If I am in the kitchen, I might be asked to call the boys for dinner. If one of the boys is in the kitchen, he is asked to call the boys for dinner. And when my Mother calls, it is always the same - "Boys, come for dinner!"

Today, I think to myself, I will wait. I will wait until she calls for the girls. Oh, hang on, there's only me... well, still. I will wait until she calls for me, or for girls, or even just girl. I am angry. Angry at my Mother for not calling me, for not calling girls. For NEVER calling girls - or even what about calling 'kids' or 'children' (we're not goats either, after all). A self-professed tom-boy, it shouldn't bother me that I'm included with the boys, but somehow it does. By this time I've worked myself up into a lather. I don't want to go, but I'm hungry too - it's been a long time since lunch - and at the same time I don't really want to get into trouble. This might not be worth getting the wooden spoon.

Finally I stomp into the kitchen, knowing that my call for dinner will never come and that there's a fine line before I am officially LATE for dinner. I get a glare from my Mother from across the kitchen table. Now I see, I have crossed the line and I am in trouble after all.

"Why do always call just the boys? You never call girls, or me!" I challenge, cringing a little inside as I worry what my defiant display will create in my Mother. My cheeks are hot and I can feel the heat in them, my armpits prickly as the "fight or flight" response is kicking in. I slide in to the vacant seat at the end of the bench, on the little kids side of the table. My older brothers look up, amused, wondering what my fuss is about. My younger brothers either haven't noticed yet, because there is no fireworks, or if they do notice they are quiet so as not to attract any attention to themselves. I notice I'm still holding my breath as I'm uncertain what response I will get.

Today, I am lucky. She sighs and shakes her head slowly, exasperated with me. As usual.

"What do you want me to say," she demands suddenly, chin jutting forward, eyes like dark beads, pausing in the middle of passing the salad bowl. Suddenly I'm on the spot - all eyes at the table are on me and I feel so small.

Like a deer in the headlights, my eyes are wide and I feel my mouth open and close as I grasp at words. Like a goldfish, my mouth is moving but there's no sound. I know I won't be able to make her understand how I feel, how the call to dinner makes me feel, how it is to be not even recognized as a girl growing up in a house of boys, long deserted by older sisters who got out when the getting was good.  I don't blame them.

"Nothing," I stammer, hoping that will do and knowing it doesn't make any sense. I just need to get the heat away from me. I don't want the wooden spoon, not with everyone here, all the boys watching; I don't want to be humiliated and hurt like that. Not even for my own principles, what few I know of.

"Okay, then," she softens, placing the bowl back on the table and my crisis has been averted.

***

I spoke with my sister Anne after I posted this story.

"You didn't finish it," she said.

At the time, I said that yes I had, it was just a short vignette, it was finished. That's all there was. But on further reflection, I realize that I DO have more to add to this story, to finish it.  So, here it is.

My Mom is 86 now, going on 87, and over this last Christmas I had the opportunity to spend two weeks with her. It had been many years since I had been home at Christmas, and I was looking forward to spending some quiet time with her - knitting, reading, that sort of thing. I was also hoping to "help out" a little. She was recently put on some new medication and had just given up her drivers license, and I was glad to do a little bit to ease the holiday pressure on my siblings.

After cleaning and, mostly, organizing the kitchen cupboards, I had my eye on clearing out the back bedroom.  The Boys Room, as some of you might recognize from an earlier Little Monik story. It has long ago been emptied of its built in closets and bunk beds, but the wall-to-wall desk and drawers are still there and they have become great for stashing things. Mom is still knitting and sewing, so the room also contains her ironing board and sewing machine. I asked if she'd mind if I just got it all organized - basically re-purpose it into a big Craft Room. She thought that sounded okay.

I warned her that it would start to look worse before it got better, but she was alright with that and in I went. There were many plastic bins that had been brought in for me, expressly for sorting. So I sorted - paper in this pile, material in this bin, wool in this bin, patterns in these boxes... and oh my goodness, what an amazing button collection!

"Take it," Mom offered when I told her I was jealous of her button tin, but I declined.

"You're still using them! You never know when a button will make just the right nose for a stuffed doll or for a new little girls dress or boys sweater! You still need them."

"That's true," she acknowledged.

It gets dark early in winter, but the overhead fluorescent bulbs kept the room bright and I could have been on another planet. I do like to sort, and to organize. And I sorted. And I organized.

Mom came into the room often, checking on my progress. Sometimes she left me a snack.

"Hard to believe there's so much in here," she said, walking back into the room once, and I wasn't sure if she said it to herself or to me.

"Yes," I agreed. "Lots of memories, I bet."

"Yes," she answered. We both stood for a moment, then. This was the house I grew up in and although I had left it for the past 35 years, she had remained and had seen the rest of her sons through this room. Had said goodbye to her husband, my Dad, who had lay dying in the room just opposite, about 30 years ago. I knew that I could hear all their voices echoing, the laughter, the tears... I could only imagine what she was hearing and feeling.

Then, looking up at me with a smile she reached out for my hand.

"Let's go have dinner."

***

I love you, Mom.