Song of the Orphan

Four years ago today, your daughter, my sister, called with the news that we were orphans.

And I miss you every day, old woman.

Two days after that blow, what remained of your family gathered under the sultry canopy of delta sky, in the little cemetery where Sissy and I used to romp among the tombstones beneath the weeping willows and the oaks, across the road from the cotton field where the little Bitely boy smothered to death in a wagon load of white bolls while his folks toiled in the rows. We said goodbye to you, and then we drove in a tiny caravan to a Mexican restaurant where we told Mother-stories and gathered the residue of happiness that we were surprised to learn was still there.

And I miss you every day, daughter of Floyd and Willie Mae.

The last time I saw you alive, you said your fare-thee-well from your nursing home bed, and we promised each other that we would look for each other on the other side of the river that we knew you would cross first. The comforter on the foot of your bed was the same cream color as the cover of the bible you read to me when I was no taller than your knee. My wife had braided your hair, and your eyes looked back at me with the same level blue gaze that squeezed many a boyhood confession from me.

And I miss you every day, mountain woman who never drove a car.

There is a hummingbird on your tombstone, and it reminds me of the friendship you had with those little things, and of how animals seemed drawn to you, even the ones you pretended to dislike. Your tombstone sits on the black alluvial soil of the South’s great delta, the soil you coaxed with those knotted fingers, the soil that produced flowers and vegetables, the soil you kept out of your house with the feverish vigilance of the house-proud.

And I miss you every day, grandmother to more little ones than you realized.

I wonder if you can see me now, if you watch over me, if you hear me when I talk to you, which is often. I hold onto that more-than-hope-but-less-than-certainty instinctive feeling that we will reunite in a far land on a clear day. I wonder if you remember the trials you endured down here, and if they mean anything to you now. I wonder if my attempts to show you my love were successful.

And I miss you every day, my mother.

~ S.K. Orr