Southern Comfort

At first I was dreading the idea of coming out here to South Carolina. Sumter, South Carolina that is. I couldn’t remember the last time I was out here. And that was seven years ago. I had graduated from high school and was in my first year of college. But now, as an adult, a grown woman, I can appreciate the finer things of life. Family and lets not forget, food. There is nothing like my grandmas black eye peas and rice. Fried pork chops, green beans, and to finish it off, lemon meringue pie. I would have never tired lemon meringue pie or grits with stewed tomato sauce unless my grandmother made it. Questioning the tast of food is of no concern.

The crickets and birds chirping, the wind blowing in the trees makes this feel like home. The sad thing is, how much longer will it be. I need to learn how to cook my grandma’s food, it’s the only thing I can take back with me… Besides my memories and photos. White plush carpets and the smell of grandma lingers around the house. It’s a smell that I can’t truely describe; maybe its, perfume, food, and flowers. Stories of the past fill the air at the dining room table. Though there is laughter, what scares me is that death, wants to make its presence. I shut down at the idea of it. My grandfather was diagnosed with bone cancer and is suffering with mild dimensia. My grandmother hopelessly checks on him in the afternoon; making sure that he is still breathing. I’m scared to myself. It’s noon time and he still hasn’t awaken. One o’clock in the afternoon the music plays from the clock. The house is silent. And so am I.

Filled with complaints yesterday and the week leading up to this. I seem to be as silent as the house righ now. Everyone is gone, but the moment is right. I think she is ready. I think my grandmother is holding this last extravaganza, a huge party, with a commedian, music and dancing as a farewell. A life well lived. I look at her, her hands tired, I think she has to be ready because her husband may be. But as I look around the house, it’s well lived, it’s home. Photos of every family member, some I don’t even know. Maybe she isn’t ready, maybe she’s willing to keep fighting.

love me… olisa rachele
a woman changing for the better

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