Issue 34

Singapore
Sunday, October 12, 2023, 6:30 am

 I stand in the kitchen, eyes boring into glossy ultramarine tile. It lines the space between the granite countertop and the stained off-white cabinets, all flung open and boasting their mismatched, eclectic collection of glass and ceramic innards. My thoughts are overwhelmingly slow, my demeanor their languid echo, and I limply cradle a stack of multi-colored bowls in my hands. They belonged to my great-grandmother Agnes, and they were the only thing my mother insisted on inheriting when she died. Her days of ice cream sundaes and red wine in the nursing home finished at last when I was just six, her full set of pastel, nearly cartoonish dishes left one Midwestern storage unit for another until they traveled, years later, each one carefully shrouded and tightly taped in plastic bubble wrap, on big shipping containers across the Pacific Ocean to this kitchen. Now I place them, in stacks of three or more, in their assigned cabinets. My chest feels full, so jam-packed with dread, weighing down my body, my heart, and my deeply worried soul.

The hymn escapes my lips in soft, breathy tremors.

You would sing it before you lost yourself, beginning the round until another voice joined your rich baritone. The sound warmed the space it filled, continuing on and on, unceasing until life drew our attention elsewhere. Cancer throughout your esophagus, intestines, and stomach never stopped you from easing into prayerful song. It had to take away your brain–it had to steal your voice.

I sing it alone, alone in the kitchen of a house on the other side of the world from you as my tears drip onto your late mother’s dishes. The song is a prayer that you will feel peace, peace well deserved after such unrelenting suffering. I pray, too, that you can hear my voice across the oceans and continents that span between us and that maybe, in your heart, you can join the song one last time.

In a tiny Texan town, in a home whose cupboards have simple white dishes, you and Grandma watched live television Mass in the living room just as you always did. Uttering a soft ‘peace be with you,’ she rested a hand on your shoulder, and your heart decided to listen. It was October 11 at 4:30 pm, or October 12 at 6:30 am in my ultramarine-tiled kitchen.

It hit me that you were gone on the long-haul flight to San Francisco. While everyone else drowned out the tedium of the economy cabin with Hollywood’s latest contribution to pop culture, I let out shaky sobs. I was so numb until then, the adrenaline wearing off and my mind having the space to wander and wonder. Wondering who I’m supposed to talk to now, now that you’re gone. Even the flight attendants, the only people in that godforsaken tin can not trying to block everything out, knew well enough to leave me be.

I had been so tired the Sunday morning that Heaven took you. The night before I wrote and rewrote a letter to a boy countless times, choosing each word so delicately for all six pages, meticulously handwritten.

You remember him, don’t you? I wanted so badly for you to like him when I brought him home to meet you, to approve of my first romantic choice. You quizzed him about the possibility of dragons existing (which had been on your mind since it had occurred to you how many mythologies worldwide include the massive, fire-breathing beasts), and you seemed somewhat impressed with his knowledge of history and Arthurian legend.

Restless and having given up on sleep, I found that it takes so many painful words, so many not-so-loving phrases, so many not-so-young reasons and feelings to justify ending two years of young love.

Naive love. Hopeful, caring love. Unexpectedly, painful, difficult love that just got to be too much.

So I sat, crammed between the broad shoulders of the two remaining men in my life, my father and brother, realizing I had lost both of my dearest friends– the one who would talk to me for hours, and the one who would have provided that unending embrace when you (the former) weren’t around anymore.

I landed in California, Denver, then Omaha, remembering every good thing for thirty-some hours. Crying, though, came in bouts of varying lengths and intensities the week after that Sunday, after I arrived at the church to celebrate your life. The priest had never met you, a frail, cynical monsignor from North Dakota.

You would have hated his homily, absolutely hated it. He made a point to avoid saying your name, referring to “this person” that we all loved. His opening line was “Seeing so many people here tells me what a positive impact this person made on the world, but that doesn’t matter.” He never said it outright, but the whole message was ‘This is going to happen to all of you, too, so make sure you haven’t sinned that bad!’ I don’t know about you, but that’s the first time I’ve been angry in church.

The singers changed the key of “On Eagle’s Wings,” a sin in and of itself, and Grandma insisted on a closed casket because she didn’t want people to see you looking so sick. She made the man from the funeral home close it while I stood there trying to say goodbye, your friends and family trickling into the pews. I had never cried tears that heavy before, my eyes bearing the weight of being the last on Earth to ever see you.

So many people lined up to deliver their carefully worded condolences, Grandma shoving off the rain of sympathy as if it were false accusations. She smiled as she continued to neglect any loss in the presence of other living souls. She loved you so deeply, but God forbid she lets that show. I can’t imagine the loneliness, the horrible emptiness she must feel after fifty-five years. For all I know, the only way she can express it is to hide in the hotel bathrooms, sobbing to her reflection while we wait outside the door, no longer allowed to ask if she’s okay.

To be frank, I don’t know if I’m okay anymore. I spent the week leading up to the big events (my 18th birthday, and the flights back home) being hit with sudden and overpowering grief, leaving dinner tables to hide in bathrooms and cry. Maybe Grandma and I do have something in common after all.

We spent the rest of the week in small-town Ceresco, staying with the other grandparents, taken aback when my uncle arrived unannounced, three obnoxious dogs in two, and a new girlfriend on his arm. We took this in stride because, well, what choice did we have?

Once all of the insignificant days had passed, each one taking its sweet time, I found myself in a dimly lit Italian restaurant eating lasagna with much too thick noodles. Grandma sat next to me (probably because all of the established grown-ups kept asking her practical, overwhelming questions about how she was going to get rid of your things), and the exuberant voices of my Dad’s side of the family echoed around us while we sat, decidedly quiet. It being my 18th birthday, people wanted to celebrate. When Grandma handed me my gift, a lovely pair of elegant crystal earrings, she waited a few moments before she spoke, almost apprehensive.

“Grandpa picked these out for you, Isabelle,” she cleared her throat, tears welling, “and he wanted nothing more than to be here.”

At that moment, in the dark yet lively corner of Lincoln’s finest Italian establishment, her hardened facade cracked– we both wanted nothing more than to have you around. The ten other people at the table hardly noticed, their excited chatter concealing the oh-so-familiar sound of sadness, but in that moment we didn’t need to hide away to express our grief. We had the safety of going unnoticed, and perhaps we saw a little bit of ourselves reflected in the other. It’s unfortunate to say I went unnoticed at my birthday dinner, but at least we were celebrating a day in advance.

They’re beautiful, by the way, the earrings. Thank you.

I woke up on my birthday, dreading the arduous journey home that was soon to begin as I scavenged for breakfast. I caught the view from the kitchen window, abandoned all else, and ran out into the street.

It was snowing. Gentle, intricate flurries cascaded down from the sky–no, from Heaven–, melting not but a second after they hit the Earth. In the middle of the dark pavement, I sat, knees tucked into my chest, and let it fall on me, reveling in the best present I will ever receive. I laughed a girlish giggle, I forgot about the boy, the boy who was so much like you in some ways, and I stayed in that spot on the old, cracked pavement until I had no choice but to let reality be itself again.

It’s been about a month now since you passed, and I’ve since returned to the house whose cabinets hold the ceramic pastel dishes, the house that has nearly ten thousand miles that span between it and where you used to be. Of the countless reasons that you will never be forgotten, among them now is that I cannot stand in my kitchen without remembering how you would sing–without knowing that God must be in such good company.

 

 

 

 

Isabelle Bible was born in Durham, North Carolina in 2005, and moved to Humble, Texas shortly after. She lived there for nearly sixteen years before coming to Singapore with her parents, two younger brothers, and three dogs. Aside from writing, she loves music, cooking for friends and family, laughing much too loudly, hot cups of coffee, and going on long walks with her dogs.