MOTHER’S DAY TRIBUTE
59
“Ask me a question,” she said.
So many questions still
revolved in my mind, but
somehow it no longer seemed
appropriate to dig deep enough
to solve more family mysteries.
Instead, I thought it best to simply
hearken back to childhood
memories of her grandfather’s
plantation in South Carolina.
“Tell me about Orangeburg
when you were a little girl,”
I said.
“We went there every summer,”
she said, dreamily.
“How did you get there?”
“On the train. We always rode
on the train, except for that time
we went up by car. That was
quite a trip! My father got so
mad. The car engine got so hot,
the hood ornament melted. The
first day we made it to White
Springs.”
We talked about that trip and
sights she saw along the way.
“When we got to Orangeburg,”
she continued, “everyone came
out to see us. We’d accomplished
a great feat. I don’t know how we
ever found our way. We didn’t
have roads like today, and some
of the rivers didn’t have bridges.”
Finally, I decided to leave her
to rest with her pleasant childhood
memories.
“I just can’t imagine a world
that doesn’t have you in it,
grandmother,” I said, in parting.
She opened her eyes halfway,
and a tear rolled out.
“I’ll always be with you,” she
said. “You just keep on being
the same swell boy you’ve
always been.”
Grandmother squeezed my
hand tightly, and I squeezed
hers. And as we let go of one
another’s grasp, I realized we
were saying our final goodbye.
But I wonder — are there ever
any real goodbyes for those few
special people in our lives whom
death can never take away? No,
I don’t really think there are. In a
way, I feel like Talley will always
be there waiting, ready to entertain
another impromptu visitor
— just a little bit down the road.
An expanded version of this story
appears in the author’s book, A
Treasure We Call Home. Talley with the author and his wife Donna in 1983.
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