Easter Story

Salome never liked her name.  As a youngster she was known as Sal.  In her professional life. She went by her middle name, Mary. Salome clutched handkerchief tightly as she clung to the steering wheel while driving through the pouring rain. She gazed at her handkerchief, and briefly remembered, in passing Grandma, sending her off to Sunday School, clutching the perfumed handkerchief, with a dime neatly tide into the corner.

Salome experienced a lot in life and success had brought with it coldness and an icy distance. She had learned to maintain professional control and composure, but alone in her car on the way to grandma’s funeral the dam broke in a flood of tears. She remembered: sharing lemonade in grandma's parlor. Tomboy days playing whiffle ball. How she and her cousin competed for hugs from Grandma. She remembered: apple butter and homemade fried chicken, lace tablecloths and eggnog, Easter egg hunts in the backyard, and fresh Peach is on homemade ice cream. Then there was her girlfriend Joanna, who adopted grandma at her own grandma.

It was 300 more miles to the funeral in a journey to death. When was the last time she laughed? When was the last time she cried as hard as she cried now? She felt like a child weeping at the loss of a precious teddy bear.

Organization woman: in her professional way Salome had worked with Grandma.  Pre-arrangements had been made years before. It seemed cold, even calculating, but she was Grandma's favorite, and Grandma accepted a professional woman's advice.  A sharp pain went through Salome's forehead. Was it a migraine? And then she remembered the dark room and curtains closed and the soft cool cloth on her forehead as she relaxed on Grandma's bed. “You study too hard. Your brain is bursting. Now relax, let Grandma take care of you. It's spring break. And you could express your friends.” The warm touch, the smell of perfume in Grandma's bedroom as she remembered her sophomore year in college.

At the pace of 100 kilometers an hour, Salome was about an hour from her destination and driven by the rain, she did not stop. She took a deep breath and got her composure and practiced for an hour. The professional greetings and the posture. No one would know her grief. She was poised for action, and her resolve was strong, as adrenaline flowed swiftly through her veins.

Then she turned the corner to grandma’s house. She noticed the old swing. It was a porch swing. A sudden urge for love went through her. And she remembered the man she had given up for her career, and how he had caressed her there at Grandma's house. The wind was lifting the swing. And gently move delivers pace.

This journey was a lot rougher than she thought it would be. She had laid all the memories aside for years, and now an avalanche began: childhood losses smothered her at Grandma's doorstep. She was afraid, alone!

The funeral went exactly as planned. Salome was like a rock, a stone solid professional. People spoke of her strength, the rock of the family. She listened to the typical inane greetings: “Grandma looks like herself, doesn't she?” And. The “I'm sorry's” echoed in her ears. The funeral was finally over.

Little did Salome know that the stone would be rolled away.

The next afternoon, her friend, companion at Grandma's dinner table, took her out for dinner. Salome was to return to business-as-usual the next day.

Her friend brought her a gift and as they concluded, dinner together said. “Grandma wants to have this.” As she took out a small package from her purse.

Salome open it slowly. The wrappings seemed centuries old and then that familiar smell of perfume. It was a handkerchief; and a dime was neatly tide into the corner. Salome wept like she had wept when she was ten years old and the stone was rolled away.  

Author: Kenn Storck

Copyright @2021 Storck Nest Stories

May be used with permission.

kennstorck@gmail.com