Twilight vigil by her bed
Remembrances of life with her
The songs she used to sing
With her veined hand in my own
I whisper to her many things
While she dreams her dying dreams
Her breath is a faint sigh that slows
With each rise and fall of her chest
Until at last I see it’s still
And as I sit, our hands still joined,
In my heart I think I hear again
The sweetness of her song
Leans out her window.
Icy, crystal-laden air
Numbs the lungs within her chest
And steals away her breath.
Three rings around the moon
The maiden sees
And imagines witch voices in the night
Canting tales of death and fright
That lunar circles foretell.
The voices are but the winter winds
That swirl and swell
Among the trees
Yet they fill her heart with dread,
Provoking vampire images in her head.
She sees again the deer she saw that day
Sprawled dead on the highway.
A phantom shadow shrouds the moon,
Staining black the hill.
Then shines the moon anew, ringed still.
Her voice rang true and clear
Just as my grandfather’s had
Another time, one long-ago year
And I in wonder
As she sang in church today
Could not help but ponder
The mystery of DNA
I asked myself:
This gift of song –
Where in our family tree
Could its origin be?
Which generation
first saw it come?
And by what random decree
Is it passed on only to some?
Oh, lucky Ann to be one!
Life’s a song
As we cycle along
And I don’t care
If skies are gray
Or if skies are fair
For even rain
Torrential as can be
Cannot dampen the joy
That this grandchild
This very special boy
Even now at seventeen
Enjoys being seen
Biking with me
Laura
You are a whirlwind to me
Your eddies stir up my day
And drive boredom away
You blow through here
In gusts of youthful fun
Until joy and I are on
Outside Havana's limits, the bus bumped along broken highway, bouncing us in our seats as we listened to Cuban music emanating from the bus' tape player – salsa rhythms, son, and cha-cha-cha, and the haunting, lively guitar and song of Polo Mantanez, a Cuban favorite, all the more favorite because he had died in a car crash just two short months before.
We passed sugar cane fields in various degrees of growth and harvest. Some, their stalks fluttering in a gentle breeze, seemed purple-tinged, as if brushed lightly by an impressionist's hand. Other fields, already harvested and awaiting torching to scorch the ground in readiness for replanting, bore short, truncated stumps. Sugar cane, we were told by Lizet, our Cuban guide, involves an endless cycle of planting, growing, maturing, harvesting, cutting down, and burning – then planting and beginning again.
Old farm machinery, as antique as the autos we had seen on the streets of Havana, dotted the fields here and there. “How do they keep them running?” we asked, and “Cuban ingenuity and new motors whenever possible” was the answer. When Russia was subsidizing Cuba, the economy was good, we were told, but when communism died in Europe and the Russians, having their own monetary crises, pulled out, Cuba had no resources to buy new machinery, or much else. UNICEF came through with aid to refurbish schools, and other UN departments gave some monies for rebuilding and repaving, but in the main, Cuba was left in its present state – a beautiful island of grand and decaying buildings, equipment pieced together as best as possible, and roads in unbelievable disrepair.
In the distance over fields, hawks, wide of wing, dipped and soared. Now here, now there, a royal date palm (the national tree of Cuba) seemed to rise like a phoenix in the fields where cows grazed, and they were skinny cows indeed, as were the few beef cattle we saw. Yet, there seemed to be no serious shortage of food throughout the land. Most Cubans, we had already noticed, were trim, but by no means thin. They appeared to be healthy for the most part and well-nourished. Their general demeanor was confident and friendly, traits incompatible with abject hunger. Their material possessions, as we had seen while in Havana, were few and in poor repair, but in the essentials – food, shelter, and especially education – the Cubans seemed sufficiently endowed.
At one point along the road, our bus passed an open truck. Workers rode upright in it, standing in the area behind the cab, bunched together, shirtless, talking and laughing with one another on their way to work in the fields. We saw many huts, simple homes, with an occasional pig tethered on a leash, and sometimes a scurrying chicken or two in the yard. Some huts were thatch-roofed and some had a sheet of tin for roof, further proof of what we were coming to know – that Cubans make do with whatever they have, adapting to life rather than complaining about it. Sheep could often be seen close
by, and farther into the fields we saw workers in groups of three or four, many of them in bright blue shirts, some wearing gray hats to shield the sun, whose heat now at the height of day, seemed to create undulating lines across my vision. I felt myself slipping off into an open-eyed, dreamy sleep state.
When next I stirred to full awareness, the little mounds of hills I had seen early in the journey, had evolved into taller hills, then into quite tall ones. Now there were more and varied trees, among which I spied the flamboyant, red, spiky-flowered tree the Cubans call the wedding tree. There were yellow and orange-flowered hibiscus trees (which Lizet told us were of very hard wood and used for making baseball bats), and large-leafed trees that I learned were teak trees. We saw coffee trees called carib trees, first introduced by the Haitian French in the 19th Century. I spotted a fichus-like tree which Lizet identified for me as the almácigo tree, of very soft wood used in making pencils, and, of all things, coffins. There followed also field upon field of tobacco, the devil weed, that later would be rolled into the much coveted Cuban cigars. Being among such unfamiliar flora heightened the feeling I often experienced in Cuba – that of being somehow illegal, an interloper in an exotic, forbidden land, which only enhanced for me the excitement of being there.
Along the highway we saw many structures somewhat resembling football goal posts. These were built for the sole purpose of displaying billboards and more billboards throughout the landscape, boasting the Fidel-led revolution of 1959. Patria o Muerte proclaimed one; Revolución es Libertad, another. The Cubans, in the formal history lectures we had been required to attend in Havana, referred to Castro's takeover as The Revolution That Triumphed. We had come to Cuba to learn, and we knew we were learning much, but we also knew that interspersed among the facts was more than a smattering of propaganda, but as we had been told by our Elder Hostel coordinator, we were guests in a country at odds with our own, so we kept our mouths shut and our minds open.
Eventually, far off on the horizon we could see the Sierra Rosario Mountains. Gray clouds hovered over their flattened tops, and mist drifted down to the valley below. Nestled here along this road between mountains, we saw lettuce growing, yellow among other greens. We saw a red tractor, vintage 1950, and by the side of the road a man coaxed a broken-down auto. Farther on, off a few yards from the highway, we saw what Lizet said was a primary school. Children sat at outside tables having lunch. They waved at us in delight, and we vigorously waved back, and would have tarried a moment there, but the bus went doggedly on. Along the road, two young men in a horse-drawn, open cart steered over to the berm to make room for the bus to pass. We saw sway-back cows; we saw steel towers that carried electricity; we saw an old fliver with a tin hood painted red. We saw white egrets in the fields, and a man on horseback surveying the crops, and a boy standing on his roof with hose in hand, watering the field behind his hut, and animals on long tethers grazing right up to the highway, and leaves on wooden poles strung between posts, drying in tobacco fields, and turkeys in a front yard, and two señoras, each with hands on hips, one in blue shirt and one in red, deep in conversation before their hut door. At bus stops we saw clumps of humanity waiting, some of them had bicycles with them, and I wondered if they would be permitted on the bus, if it ever came. The buses obviously ran few and far between, as evidenced by the great number of people waiting at the stops along the route.
We saw, besides all this, many other myriad and sundry objects, figures, and scenarios, until at last, climbing, the bus neared the crest of the ascent, and the Hotel Los Jazmines, our destination for the next two nights, came into view.
Her name was Stella, and her portrait, with those dreamy eyes and one curved lock of black hair falling softly over her cheek, captured her at sixteen, and she remained sixteen, then, for all time, because shortly afterward, she died. They called it sleeping sickness, but it must have been encephalitis, for family legend was that she would fall into a sleep so profound my grandmother could not waken her. Family legend also had it that she was sweet and good and truly loved all her nine siblings, and they her. She was the family favorite, which is often the case with one who dies young.
My mother had originally promised to name her first girl child Mary for the Blessed Virgin, but I was born very shortly after Stella’s death, so mother chose instead the name Mary Stella for me. Double names were common in those days. I knew many Mary Anns, a few Mary Janes, even a Mary Rose or two, but Mary Stella was, well…unique. I didn’t like it, but didn’t dare say so, because it would have been blasphemy. There was an Italian poem, or maybe it was a prayer (I don’t remember which,) that began, “Maria, Stella del Mare” (which means Mary, Star of the Sea,) and about the only nice thing about my name was that my father would affectionately call me his little stella del mare.
It was hard growing up in the shadow of Stella’s goodness. I used to look up at that portrait, in its magnificently large and silver frame, on a wall of my grandparents’ home, and feel I somehow was letting my mother down. She never gave me any indication that she thought so, but maybe it was Stella’s dreamy eyes looking down at me, or maybe it was just me, I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that saints are a hard act to follow. That’s why, after I went off to college and had an opportunity to invent myself anew, I decided to drop the frills and became just plain Mary.
After I was grown and married and had raised a family of my own, had lost my grandparents and buried my own dear parents, little by little events began to conspire to
make me see the Stella legend differently. I didn’t recognize them as conspiring events at the time, but they kept building and I kept mellowing. The first event of consequence was that my bachelor uncle Lou, who lived in the house that used to be my grandparents’, one fine day, out of the blue, offered me Stella’s portrait.
“After all,” he said, “you’re her namesake. You even look like her.”
My mother’s family had often told me so, and I remember I used to stare at her picture and try to find something in that angelic face that I even remotely shared, but I never could. Finally I concluded that my resemblance to Stella was just one more family legend, and one not to be taken lightly, so I accepted the portrait. No way, though, could
I hang that large frame, in all its silver magnificence, on my modest walls, so (and thank goodness Lou never knew) I exiled it instead to the dark confines of my storage room.
The next little incident was that a dear friend of mine came to help me rearrange some of the accessories around my house and put others away in the storage room. She came upon Stella’s picture and asked who she was, and upon learning, said, “Oh, Mary, how can you banish such beauty to such a lowly place!” I felt immediate guilt, but managed to squelch it, turn out the light in the storage room, and shut the door. “Too big,” was the only explanation I gave my friend, but later during that day, and even a time or two the next day, I thought of Stella in storage, her silver frame propped against an old trunk
Shortly thereafter, I visited my oldest uncle, Alex, and it was then that my heart did a complete turn around with regard to Stella. I happened to mention to him, “Guess what, Alex -- remember that wonderful portrait of Stella? Well, a couple years ago, Lou gave it to me.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “I always wondered what had happened to it.” He paused a moment, looking off into the distance, then said, “I’ll never forget when Stella died. I loved her so much. I was only about eight, but I loved her so much. We all did. She was so good.”
I began to get the idea that family legends are often pure truth…or at least this family legend was.
“I remember that day clear as anything,” he went on. “I was happy, walking home from school with some friends. A neighbor woman called out to me from her window (people used to do that a lot) and asked me how my sister was doing. I told her I had heard my mother tell my father just that morning that Stella seemed a little better today, and the woman said, yes, sick people often get better right before they die.”
“What an awful thing to say to the little brother!” I said.
Alex agreed. “ I nearly died myself when I heard that,” he said. “I knew Stella was sick, but I never thought she wouldn’t get well. Kids didn’t die – at least none that I knew. Was she really going to die? I wondered. I ran all the way home, my heart beating like crazy.”
He stopped a minute to get control. I saw tears in his eyes, and couldn’t help thinking of him – that little boy – running home in anguish.
“As soon as I was inside the front door,” he continued, “I yelled, ‘Mamma, is Stella going to die?’ She told me it was true – that Stella was very sick and that the doctor said she was already dying.”
I know it sounds corny, but I said a prayer to Stella at this point. Well, I guess it wasn’t really a prayer, because that’s not my style, but what I said inside my head was, “I’m sorry I was so flip about being your namesake, Stella, and I’m really sorry you died so young.”
“You know,” my uncle was saying, “It took me a long time to forgive my mother.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For not telling me sooner that Stella was going to die.”
“Oh,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
There was silence. Then I heard him give out a great sigh. Then silence again. Finally I said, “You know what, Alex? I think Stella’s picture really belongs with
you, and I’m bringing it over tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “Gee, that’s really nice.”
And another really nice thing was how great Stella’s portrait, in its magnificent silver frame, looked on Alex’s dining room wall where we hung it the next day.
He looked up and saw the Widow Digby climbing the church steps ahead of them.
"I swear," Carolyn whispered, "she's a saint, if anyone ever was one!"
The Widow Digby smiled to herself and entered the church. She pretended not to have heard, but exalted (although humbly--ever humbly!) in the sainted image she must have projected.
It was good that she heard only Carolyn's remark, and not Dean Watts' response. "Saint?" he said. "Funny, I would have said more 'religious fruitcake'!"
"Shh!" Carolyn said. "How can you say that? She virtually raised those five kids
herself. Jake Digby was drunk more times than he was sober!"
"Maybe she drove him to the bottle," Dean said. "She spent half their married life on her knees! Well," he said upon reflection, "I guess she spent a few times in bed, but anyway, maybe it's tough living with a saint. Maybe that's why he drank. Who knows?"
"Dean!" Carolyn said, slapping him lightly on the arm. "Stop it! The poor woman! You have no cause to say that. Today her last child, Malachy, makes his First Communion. She has done a wonderful job with those children."
Mrs. Digby genuflected beside the front pew, then knelt, knees flat down on the tiles of the aisle floor, and with exaggerated movement of her right arm, crossed herself, head bowed low. She arose and sat in the pew, at the very end, closest to the center aisle.
Sunlight through the stained-glass windows made wavy red and blue patterns on the pews. Somewhere outdoors, a bird twittered. One of God's own creatures, thought this pious woman. Contentedly, she looked up at the altar.
"O Lord," she said to herself, "How I love this house wherein Thou dwellest! The tenting-place of Thy glory!" Surely He was smiling down upon her today.
A sudden jab at her elbow broke into her reverie. Looking up, she saw Mrs. Harrington . "Late again!" Mrs. Digby muttered.
"Please move in," Mrs. Harrington said. "I believe there's room in this pew for one more."
Mrs. Digby set her lips. She has no one in the First Communion Class, she thought. What right does she have to take up space belonging to us proud parents? Just because she lives in that big house on the hill! Lords it over us! Who does she think she is, anyway?
Mrs. Harrington pressed against Mrs. Digby's kneeling form. "Please move in," she said again.
Mrs. Digby shook her head. "I want the aisle seat," she said. "I came on time so that I would get it. You're welcome to climb over me and sit on the other side of me."
"Surely you don't expect me, elderly as I am, to have to lift my poor legs to climb past you," Mrs. Harrington said. "Move over, for the love of heaven, and let me sit at the end of the pew!"
"No!"
Mrs. Harrington, her great chest heaving, tried to nudge Mrs. Digby to make room for her, but Mrs. Digby grasped the side of the pew and held fast. "Climb over!" she said.
"Move!" said Mrs. Harrington.
"Lord have mercy," sang Father Brady from the altar.
"Climb over!" said the Widow Digby.
"Christ have mercy," responded the choir.
Sister Mary Aloysius, with clicker in hand, signaled two times. The double-click was the cue for the Communion Class to rise and proceed in procession to the altar rail. Their big moment was approaching. The Mass was nearing the Consecration, and the First Communicants were to receive the Host before the rest of the congregation.
"I tell you, I want a good view of my Malachy!" said the widow, holding her ground.
"And I tell you, I want to kneel down and properly attend Mass!" said Mrs. Harrington, trying to wedge in anew.
One of the ushers came over to them then. "Ladies, ladies," he whispered. "Please, Mrs. Digby, let Mrs. Harrington be seated."
"No! Unlike someone whose name I won't mention, I was on time for Mass! I have a right to the aisle seat to see my Malachy receive his First Communion!"
With a sigh, the usher led Mrs. Harrington to another pew, where room was made for her.
"Glory to God in the highest," sang the priest from the altar, raising his arms to heaven.
"And on earth, peace to men of good will," sang the choir.
The Widow Digby bowed her head and closed her eyes in fervent devotion, and stifled a triumphant smile.