Certain Things

There are certain things you’ll always remember, about her.

Like how her voice sounded when she sang Amazing Grace,

Or how she tucked her jeans into her socks when she was working in the garden.

There are certain things you’ll never forget.

The taste of her apple sauce, the newspaper riddles she would send you in the mail at college.

The way she called you Songbird and talked to you in the bathroom as you got ready for work at the Tryon on summer nights.

The way she hung her bathing suit to dry.

Her hand towels by the stove, her clothes on the line.

Resting on the floor when watching the soaps and whiskey sours when solving puzzles.

Cardinals, hummingbirds, chickens, fawns, and snakes.

Peanut m&m’s, coconut balls, pizza from the Quickway on Fridays.

Plastic pink curlers, the smell of onions, old nail files.

Cheese on the counter, pine scented candles, the telephone in the hallway with all our numbers written on an old piece of cardboard.

There are certain things you’ll always remember about him.

Like how his laugh echoed through the garden in the early mornings.

How his voice belched louder than all the other spectators at your games.

How he only wanted the best from you that sometimes it came out the wrong way.

The picture of President Bush on the counter, pocket knives, and turkey calls.

A recycled peanut butter jar full of coins, tooth picks, bandanas used for hankeys.

An old watch that never seemed to work.

There are certain things you’ll never forget.

That one terrifying drive up North, the smell of bacon on Christmas morning, wood smoke spilling from the chimney.

4^th of July parties, clams in the cooker, his stars and stripes swimming trunk.

Hunting flannels, neon orange hats, garden boots and a hatch full of old socks.

There are certain things you’ll remember about both of them.

How the smell of falling leaves mixed with wood smoke can take you right back to sitting on the red carpet by the fire. That cast iron screen in front, standing up straight, guarding us, protecting us from the intense heat. The wood pile always stacked. The fire always going. The house always warm.

Swimming pools and swimming. Floaties, noodles, thermometers that read the wrong temperature.

Deer, holidays, hunting, camouflage, bells, tea kettles, sewing machines, radios.

Lazy susan’s, tractors, potatoes, church pews, crosses, dentures.

There are certain things you’ll never forget.

Dancing under the moon, raspberry bushes, tomato stakes.

Rolls of pennies, bibles, photo albums, records.

The Grand Ole Opry, Loretta Lynn, Aruba, Agway.

I will never forget the one morning when all three of us were in the garden.

I was in the raspberry patch and Grampa was in the beans.

The sun was rising, there was mist in the air, dampness mixed with the summer heat.

Gramma grabbed a quart basket and came walking toward me in the berries.

I was probably singing a song.

That’s why they called me songbird,

I always sang and they would always listen.

Always letting me sing my song. Never did they try to quiet me.

It was the perfect balance, a perfect summer harmony.

When the idea of heaven often comes to my mind I am taken back to this moment.

That place of pure sunlight and beauty and joy, that was made possible because of them.

In my mind they are already there;

In the berries, in the garden waiting for me.

Waiting to hear my song.