WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (68 page)

“I see that you met God’s gaze, huh?” Her eyes flitted across each of our faces. We nodded yes, swatted, jumped and flapped. The burial process was quick and informal. We planted flowers around his grave and marked it with a wooden cross made from thick tree branches and rope string. Maw Sue said she'd build him a better one with his name
carved in the wood, like Kernel and Morsel.  It would take a few days to make one.  Days later,
Mag hung his blue flea collar on
the perfect cross.  T
races of his white fur were still stuck
in the buckle and danced in the breeze. 
 

In the days that followed, Mag fell in and out of grief zones. I cried every time I saw the scratch on my leg. On occasions when I looked in a mirror, I’d catch a glimpse of the Zorro mark across my nose. “Stupid Capital C.” I'd say
while laughing. 

And then, unaware, Casper would pull a sneak attack from the grave. It would catch us vulnerable, unprepared. We’d be playing outside and come across an object, or something that would remind us of him. Mag locked up, dropped to her face and fell into her trance. I’d rush over, grab her hand and squeeze
it a few times for reassurance.  When
I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d have to run away to grieve on my own. I’d travel down my lonely road and Mag would travel hers.
Like Papa Hart did when he entered the road in his mind memory, that only he could walk. 
We’d stare real hard into the memories we tucked away, replaying the movies in our heart’s reel, rewinding, reviewing. We’d blubber and cry and each time see the light, meet the gaze of God and let go. Time and time again
, let go
. I let go of that stupid cat twenty times in one week. My retinas should be fireballs by now, and Mag the Greek Goddess of storms should have enough power to blink and disintegrate a forest.
The letting go never got easier.  It was fresh and raw and real as the day Casper died. 

LOVE LETS GO

Crumbs are falling like snowflakes. 
They emerge more and more each day, each minute that passes, searching me out and revealing pieces of a childhood I left behind.
They are the Hansel and Gretel crumbs without the witch.  They are packages w
rapped, addresse
d, stamped and mailed long ago.  On their epic journey to earth, they get lost, a resistance hinders them, detains them.  They are
held up in the portals of time, and only now released and finding their way to
the rightful owner, the recipient, the intended target, the bearer of the gift who has the only right to unwrap and open it.  It is a delivery, planned, purposed and
right on time. Maw Sue always said “Never ignore the signs, the small feelings in your gut and the happenstances that enter your life on a daily basis. They come as gifts to guide you, reassure you, and point you to your future.”

They cause a heart to stir within you and instinct to kick in, as if a flame is lit inside the lesser light and you see things you never seen before. 
It is an awakening to the other side. 
Crumbs are meant to be consumed and applied to life so that one may fulfill the journey. 
I am reminded of this in the mundane moments when something just hits me, an idea, a thought, or some event out of the blue will occur and
my heart knows.  It just knows it is not of this earth, or of my flesh, it is of the spirit.  The otherworldly mystical place that instills us.  I
t is an invitation, a doorway, an opportunity. The Crumb Giver is a messenger of hope. He brings morsels of magic, nibbles of nourishment, divine delights, all of which are just savory samples of the life to come. 
Spirit eyes and spirit ears. Eyes to see and ears to hear. 
I
have to admit it was easier as a child, to believe, to act and apply these things.  Now that I’m older and adulthood has placed its curse upon me, doubts and the world get in the way.  I am pulled in every direction.  And s
peaking of crumbs, the last time I saw Papa Hart alive, I was a crumb crying catastrophe.

I pulled into the parking lot of the care center unable to imagine what it was like for him being in an unfamiliar bed in a cold sterile room where who knows how many other poor souls have died before him. 
My stomach wretched thinking about it. 
He needs to be on the porch when he takes his last breath and hear the squeak of the swing and the squawk of the plank boards, the ekk-ekk of the old rusty chain and the occasional honk from cars passing. I have the urge to rush in and roll him out of there. I bet he’d get a kick out of that. While I sit in the front seat, the inevitable hits me. It ALL hits me. I throw Annie into gear and start bawling. I’m crying for a flat-headed cat who’s been dead for years, for my drama queen sister who loved that stupid cat. I’m crying because although I never admitted it, I loved that cat just as much. I’m crying for my sad, divorced, no dating, 
pathetic—can’t—find—myself
 crackle shell. I’m crying for crying sake. Who knows at this point? I’m fumbling around the car looking for a spare tissue to catch the snot rolling out of my nose, when a gathering of people approach. An old man
is shuffling along the sidewalk holding onto a walker.  He’s
barely able to move inches at a time, behind them, hunched over with that look on his wrinkled crept paper face. The one that says, 
God take me now. I’m sick of this.  
I fold up on the steering wheel. I am the Niagara Falls of crying. I cry for the old man who can barely walk. I cry for the sad look on his face, for his mind that probably is long gone, for the family walking ahead of him, for what lies ahead, the suffering, the unknowns. I cry for the little girl inside me,
the one I love, the one I hate.  I cry for the
tainted crumbs, for the sweet and bitter crumbs, for the taste of memories, for the journey of my past, for Maw Sue, for Dell, for biscuits and Big Pop and for the God that never showed up. I cry for the red stone
dragon necklace although I hated it.  I cry for the overwhelming guilt still locked up inside me, never leaving, growing heavier and heavier by the day.  I cry for all the Cupitor’s before me, the petal people inside the Mason room, I cry for the gifts and its unfulfilled destinies.  I
cry for my losses that I
will never make lovely. 

“YOU CANNOT SIT IN THE PARKING LOT ALL DAY.” The voice said. For a second I’m not sure
I even hear it. 
“STRAIGHT UP WILLODEAN. STRAIGHT UP!”

This lifts me up.  I plug my crying, dry up like a riverbed in the Texas sun. 
In my inner spirit, I felt an urgency unlike ever before. “Go now.” The voice said.

It was Maw Sue’s voice, the little girl’s voice, my voice, my instinct’s voice, my gut’s voice, the crumb giver’s voice, hope and love’s voice all sifted together. I grabbed my purse off the seat and
scrambled out of Annie.  I
ran like a crazy woman, passing the old man and his family. I entered the building, glanced up at the signs, ran down the hallway and sto
pped at the doorway to his room.  I hesitated.  There would be no turning back.  This was it. 
The second skin of fear rattled me as I opened the door. Strange noises attacked my ears. I felt woozy as if I was entering Maw Sue’s bedroom again, a c
hild, an adult, fears and panic creeping in. 
I stop halfway inside and brace myself, gathering my
composure. I take a deep breath and walk. 
My heels make a clicking death sound on the marble floor. My eyes flickered and scanned the room avoiding the one subject in the bed. 
No. Can’t. Won’t. Refusal, no, no, no…denial, sleeper, don’t’ see, don’t hear….

I knew once my eyes see, I could not un-see. 
The room was compact with a large bay window and a spectacular view of the air conditioner against an ugly concrete wall. There was two vintage chairs, one against the wall and one next to the bed. A blue nightstand with a blue telephone and some scattered medical papers stood out amongst the blandness.
My eyes went straight to him. 
Look looks.
 I barely recognized the man lying in the bed. For a moment, I almost fled. 
This is the wrong person. Wrong room.
 He didn’t look like the man I remembered, as if someone entered in and stole him away, leaving an empty shell of himself. He was frail and lifeless. My gifted cursed ears hear a crackle shell being squeezed, crushed between the fingers of God, the God who allows suffering and pain.
The God who doesn’t show up. 
Three lines, twelve words.
In those few seconds, the house within me stirred, buckled and cracked.
The screams were rancid inside the rooms. 
When I came back to myself I heard familiar words. “Love looks.” 
I remembered the ritual. 
So I did.
I looked. 

His once exemplifying characteristics, chiseled face, strong brown eyes, his masculine mustache—gone. Replaced with sagging skin, brittle bones and wasted muscles. He used to have a dignified walk, one hand in his pocket, chin up, head sporting his trademark crooked hat—all gone and replaced with a shuffle, a cane, a limp and now a strange building, a mattress, bed pans and breathing devices. He gasps. He twitches. He breathes with a sucking noise into a mask. It filled up like a balloon and then deflated. The sounds made me want to drop and break into a million busted stars and moons. 
Suck—gasp—moan
. I wanted to gouge out my eyes and plug up my ears. The madness in the room fought the madness inside the house, inside me and it all rolled together as one terrible awful. The door squeaked and I turned to see
a nurse. 
She saw my pale face and reassured me that he felt no pain because of the medication.
That didn’t reassure me in the least bit.  Being on the porch is my reassurance.  But
I could say noth
ing, just weave back and forth and try to keep from falling. 

Love looks. 
The noise—the gasping—the air—the centerpiece of my life br
eaks and crumbles for the third time.  I am
in between, in the realm of helplessness. The moon dislodges from the sky, falls
to the ground and shatters like a crystal ball. 
The stars grow dark, lose their glo
w and disperse into nothingness and I am with them. 

I grab his hand and press all the porch memories into his palm. I want them to absorb into this skin and find place where they belong. I close my eyes and I look with love, with heartache, with joy. My breath mimicked his, caught up inside his spirit, so near the luminous gaze, the glorious burning lamp. I want to go with him, save me
from the burden of living in such a place of pain, of unknowns. 
Noises and chatter sift in and out of my ears. Porch sounds press inside me, inside him. I feel tears flowing and wetting my neck. I can barely keep from losing it, cracking, breaking, shattering. I hear the shadows calling me to the room, the room of oppression and nothingness, where no one feels, no one grows and no one suffers, nothing, no pain, only numbness
. I want numbness.
 I don’t want to feel. 
Love looks.
 The words scream into my gifted ears, and c
rumbs disperse from the heavens and fall upon my tongue. 
Yesterday mixes with today.
 I look with my inner eyes, my spirit eyes of hope, of love, of pain, of denial and love born grief. 
I look
. I force my eyes to look, and look and look. 
Suction. Gasp. Suction. Gasp.
 My spirit ears hear the sounds of death, so close, so near.
Look Willodean, look. 

“Straight up Willodean, Straight up!” I hear his voice so familiar, so heartfelt, so
warm. 
The porch creaks, the wind gushes, the planks squawk. Everything is as it should be on the well-worn road of travel, where we meet on and in the crossroads of time, of love, of past and present, of love and memories.
But we cannot stay on the same road, for his time is up. 
Our hands slip
from each other’s grasp and fade into the distant horizon, each to our own way, our own journey. 
Loud wails a
re coming from inside the house, inside me.  And then I realize it’s me. 

Love looks Willodean.
 
Love looks.

His frail lim
p body lies across the mattress.  A disconnected
branch
after a thunderstorm, broken without connection, no roots or attachments to wither and die back to the earth from which it came. 
In my spirit ears, I hear Papa Hart’s voice as clear as if he sat up from the bed and spoke. “Remember who you are Willodean. You’ve got snake runner blood. You’ll be okay know matter what.”

What? Snake…huh?
 Suddenly I am caught up in death’s grip, in the words he spoke or didn’t speak. I am confused. 
Snake runner? What’s a snake runner?
 I
can’t remember.  Did he even tell me the story or was it a story? 
I wait for a magic crumb to fall. 
Tell me, make me remember.
 My tongue salivates and waits to reveal its mystery, its substance, so I can understand and hold it close to me, to learn, to prosper, for my future. 
I wait.
 Nothing happens
. I wait.
 A quickened vision enters my head, small bare feet running through pine straw, a wooded trails of sorts, popping sounds, whacking, rustling, and more whacking. 
What is that?
 
Why can’t I see the rest? Is this a story I’ve forgotten?
 Oh. My. God. What if I don’t remember it? I’ll never know. Papa Hart will be gone.
And I’ll never know. 
This simply cannot happen. I want to shake him and make him tell me the story but the plastic bubble sucks and sucks and gasps and tells me it’s too late. I squeeze his hand in Morse code, granddaughter to grandfather, in hopes he’ll sit up and talk, make me remember. 
Help me Papa Hart.
Nothing. So I panic and
do the next best thing.  I
close my eyes. The darkness enters in. I stare inside my soul. 
Love looks. Look Willodean. Look and remember.
 I stare hard into the sweet and bitter memories. My eyes start to burn and sting. A wall of flames erupts underneath my lids and tears flood past the trembling folds of skin. My spirit eyes prep for the fiery countenance —
the impenetrable light, the wonder of God, the shining lamp, the all-consuming fire.
 Inside the house, inside me, the
little girl gazes up in wonder along with me. 
Together we watch with our spirit eyes and hear with our spirit ears. We are seeing what Papa Hart is seeing only dim—just glimpses, while he walks that lonely road, the one only his feet can walk, the one that leads to God, so close, so luminous, so blinding. My gut is boiling and the sloshing reaction of my internal organs makes steam rise up in my belly and come from my mouth like
a hot mist. 
I am lost in an ethereal beam of love
but I know the ending which subjects me to the pain.