Her hair was a beautiful shade of muted white, still thick as it was in her earlier years. She kept it neatly tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few delicate tendrils to fall over her shoulders. She made it a point to always be presentable .. "You never know just who you will meet," she'd say with a laughter in her face, "and that may be the only impression they will ever have of you!" Though she had lived through wars of many kinds, she emanated a kind of innocence, of youth.. a kind of hope..almost as if she had never seen and experienced so many injustices in life.
So she'd make it a point to keep her old floral dresses and shawls softly pressed, as to have them fall over body her without wrinkle. That would never last long, of course, with grandchildren crawling over her, fighting for the prime seating on her knee.
"Tell us another story, Neenah! Pleeeeease!" There were seven of them, ranging from three to thirteen, the eighth grandchild on his (or her) way. And each one felt equally loved by her, each in different ways only a Neenah could know how to love. She smiled her familiar smile, the wrinkles on her face falling into their places as she surveyed her humble audience. Ever so tenderly, she hushed them, creating an anticipation as thick as the air of a Kentucky summer. Every eye stayed on her, excitedly awaiting what was about to come to life. She, in her eighty-some years, commanded the room effortlessly.
Her eyes closed in reverie. Slowly, steadily, she took a deep breath in, and smiled. She had so many stories to tell.
All in an instance she began to speak of distant lands (few of them to which she had actually been), childhood adventures (romanticized, of course), and how she fell in love with Pawpaw (which needn't be romanticized at all). Her cheeks would grow a shade of rose, and as she waived her hands through the air in gestures, the smell of her lotion would fill the air. She still found adventure. She created adventure in the lives of her children and grandchildren. And everyone in her presence felt like they were home.
Yes, even her own children, though in their thirties and forties, would watch from a distance and listen. Something inside of them arose from the soot and ashes, something came alive. They remembered these stories. They looked at their own children sitting wide-eyed, with their mouths slightly gaped open, and remembered the feeling of pure, unadulterated belief. If the bills were waiting to be paid, if the business deal had fallen through (again), if the dry-cleaning needed to be picked up A.S.A.P.. it was all insignificant for just a moment. Not forgotten. No, no..never forgotten. But not so important anymore. There was some matter more pressing. As her simple, magical words were spoken to life, these children felt great hope and great loss all in one swift blow. Hope, that there was still the adventure of life and living inside of them..and loss, that somehow, somewhere along the way, they had stopped really living.
