~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Reflections on Saying Goodbye in the South

The Lightness of Bones

Sunday morning, 9:00 a.m. in an opulent parlor of an art deco funeral home in New Orleans.
Heavy oil paintings of the men who have made a living off of the dead stared solemnly at me.
A parking lot full of vehicles told me that despite statements to the contrary, death does not take a holiday or a Sunday off.

A bereavement planner in a counseling room—asked questions, checked boxes, like placing nails in a coffin.
Guilt overpowered my composure, because mama was still alive.

Day three of the Death Watch—with no food or water, and the only oxygen poured into her body through a rattling tank at the head of her bed.
But still she lived.
Early morning coffee growing cold in our cups as I sang her favorite song—“You are My Sunshine”.

I picked up her frail hand and wrist, paper thin, almost without weight, and told her I loved her.
The great thief Dementia had stolen most of her memory and speech skills.
Still she always knew me and we had made the decisions before. Now it was time.

In a showroom, like a department store, shelves filled with receptacles to contain the “loved one’s” remains stared at me
One of these, I was told, or a plastic bag inside of a cardboard box—
an irony that would not be lost on a child of the Great Depression.

Two days later at 7:00 a.m., mama was called and moved on.
Her last breath and her hand slipping from my grasp, disappearing into air. Seven days later I picked her up in the cherry wood box.
Drove to our Alabama island home, sharing the news she had missed—and the cherry wood gleamed.
The next morning mama and I walked to Sunrise Point, and as the sun rose, I removed the plastic bag from the box and let her ashes and spirit rise upward.

I marveled at the lightness of bones, as she floated away.

The Train Passes Through Money
(Remembering ´Bobo´)

A whistle blows in the distance.
All eyes watch the track but nothing appears. The docent turns back to the “Freedom Trail” sign that tells the tale of the building behind it.

“It was just a whistle started it all.”

The soft, Delta accent catches the group’s attention.
Eyes drift to the forlorn structure.

Kudzu’s spindly fingers wrap around dull red bricks, the only visible means of support for walls that still stand. Bleached white cypress floors hold the rest of the inward cascading bricks an roof. Orange vinyl mesh fencing stretches lazily around the front porch.

The eyes fall on a sign peering ominously through the leaves:
Private Property – No Trespassing

A warning gone unheeded by a teenage boy on another hot, August day sixty-four years ago in Money, Mississippi?
Now the thick, humid August air causes the letters to run a bit — the color of blood.

The docent smiles and looks wistfully at what’s left of the old store.
“See, he was from up north. Didn’t understand how things were back then in the south. Just a little whistle from him.”

The group considers this.

“She said she lied about what she claimed the boy did to her. Couldn’t even remember a whistle. Took her fifty two years to tell the truth. But the lies started the movement. It’s the reason Ms. Parks wouldn’t give up her seat on that bus after she saw the pictures of him in the casket.”

A small woman, black skin shining with perspiration from the hot sun, stands off to the side and back of the group.

The softness in the docent’s eyes and voice disappear. Jim Crow peeks over her shoulder.

“Well, times were different back then.”
She sniffs and leads the group to the museum next door.

The small woman continues to stand in front of the abandoned grocery store and stare at the warning sign. Yes, the letters are blood red. Like the boy’s blood.
She hears the whistle, closer now, but still nothing appears on the tracks.
She steps over the fence and moves to stand before the warning sign.

“Didn’t understand the rules did you cousin? We didn’t explain. Didn’t think you were in danger — just going to buy candy. But the ‘Man’ still controls his property — buildings, his women – all are private and we can’t trespass. Not back then and not now.”
She takes a faded photo from her purse. A fourteen-year-old boy, wearing a fedora, smiles with self-assurance:
“To Cousin Eula, from your ´Bobo,' Cousin Emmett.”

The whistle blows a warning now as the engine comes down the track pulling its line of silver cars. The woman looks at the train and back at the photo.
“We still miss you Bobo.”

Then she turns and disappears into the trees behind the old store.
Because now there is only one whistle in town,
That now sends a warning as the train passes through Money.