SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 111
Her beautiful brown, short curly hair is styled as it always is—was. Her eyelids are closed and
her hands are laid across her stomach. Her small feet, which are the same size as my own, wear
a pair of black pumps. I shield my face from her form, unable to look any longer.
Retreating back to my seat in the several rows of white chairs that are set up for the viewing,
I try to erase the image from my mind and remember my Mammaw—Bren as the adults
like(d) to call her.
That person in the casket…. that isn’t her… she wouldn’t be able to knit without looking, her
eyes glued to the television in front of her or my face as I told her something about school.
She wouldn’t be capable of sneaking zucchini into brownies, tricking Dominic and Alex who
aren’t big fans of vegetables.
She wouldn’t recruit me to help with her volunteer work.
That person in the casket…. that isn’t her… that isn’t her.
——
My sister places the last pancake into her mouth, sending me a smirk. Per usual, she is the
perpetual bread hog—she never leaves family dinners without eating half of the rolls in the
bread basket. With her victory gulp released, she races away from the table and through the
thick brown back door. I hear the thumps of her footfalls slapping on the cement as her form
disappears from the view of the kitchen window. Sharing a look with my grandmother, we
both sigh, knowing that she has beat me to the rope swing for the morning.
I will deal with her later.
I follow my grandmother into me and my sister’s room, which is absent of our parents. This
weekend is a weekend for just us girls—well, plus Pappaw. The four of us snuck off to the
mountain for a couple days, enjoying the quiet of the empty woods.
I join my Mammaw in straightening up Rhys’s mess, her open overnight bag leaking clothes
all over the carpeted floor. As my grandmother begins to make Rhys’s bed for her, I sneak a
peek outside the blinded window.
Rhys is twirling on the swing, her head facing the ground as she uses her bare feet to slowly
spin her body in a circle.
Pffttt… she can’t even use the swing right.
“Owh!” my grandmother yelps, and I look over to see her wedged partially between the bed
and wall, trying to finish straightening the covers.
“Are you okay?” I ask as she stands back up.
87
