Day 10.
One of the fiercest women I'd ever known was flat on her back. IV'd up. Oxygen pumping through her nose.
Defiant.
Mostly because moments earlier a sweet, well-meaning hospital volunteer had visited with the sweetest, but dirtiest golden retriever.
News flash. And sidebar.
The matriarchs of my family are not dog lovers. At least not in the (now) popular sense. These are Southern, Depression- and post-Depression-era country girls who grew up poor enough that there were no table scraps. And if there were, it was breakfast or lunch for papa, grandma, daddy, mama and the umpteen kids. Everybody worked. There were few creature comforts. And apart from looking out for your siblings and yourself, there wasn't enough time or mettle to fend for much of anything else.
My mom drew water from a well, cutting kindling to make the fire to warm the water in the washtub that she and her three siblings had to bathe in. She picked cotton as a kid. I can still here the wind sucking through her teeth when I complained about my Buster Brown's. It'd be decades before I realized what a fresh pair of shoes each school year could mean to a kid.
And pets?
Pets were things best left in TV land for the 1-2 hours of respite and escapism Saturday nights could afford. The dog lived outside. Unchained throughout all seasons. Free to roam. The get-in-where-you-fit-in sidekick who'd growl at strangers and be gone for days on end.
Anywho, the sweet golden had come in and set the hen house comprised of my gran, my mother and my two aunts a-fire. Nurses were hastened to bring more wash cloths. Air freshener was sought. The automated sanitizer dispenser developed a stutter. Every strand of hair was instantly suspect. And I, who had awed and petted said dog, was immediately sent to the bathroom for a proper bird bath.
But then when all the tsking and oooh-weeing and "the nerve!" and the laughter had subsided, and we turned our gaze upon Margaret Ruth, we saw she was tired. The terminal diagnosis had finally revealed itself, and it was time for us to let her rest.
Months before she'd asked me for a CD mix, and I'd finally put one together. I asked her if she wanted to hear it, and as the gospel soundtrack began to play, she waved past her standby, Albertina. She chastised me for including Aretha — "I don't have that much time left. It takes her all day to sing one verse." She was in no mood for "too sweet" Sam Cooke and the Soul Stirrers. She had zero patience for Shirley's storytelling. But when the piano and organ strains of this song started, she held her hand up and shushed us.
Her eyes closed and her hand became a conductor's hand.
"Oh I forgot about this one. Oh, I haven't heard this in ... shwew."
The Barrett Sisters are my mama's favorite gospel singers, and if you can come by a viewing of Say Amen, Somebody, then you'll get a serious dose of my Sunday existence from birth to 16.
The 2:50 mark and beyond is what I most remember. My mom and I were silently swaying like we were in church. Heads bowed, but I remember looking at my gran with her hand still in the air, eyes closed and smiling.
