As a child, I would steal away to her room alone,
crossing the threshold into cool silence as if entering a shrine scented with
lavender. Circumambulating from altar to altar . . . nightstand, cedar chest,
dresser . . . I observed objects she deemed sacred – family photos, heirloom
silver hairbrush and mirror, rosary, statue of Mary. This was my godmother’s
sanctuary. I knew her as my aunt, too, but who and what she was could be
defined many ways. Old maid, creative baker, benefactor, caregiver, holy woman. This room bore her imprint, a space
sanctioned for retreat and prayer.
She loved all shades of purple. The walls of her room
were painted just the right hue, woodwork a stark white contrast. I’d lie
across her white chenille bedspread, tiny pom-poms sewn on top, which
pock-marked my bare legs if I stayed too long. As I gazed out her window, gauzy
curtains seemed a veil between her inside life and the world. The view of her
garden evoked memory – a green canvass hammock still secured between sheltering
oak trees where she once sang Row Row Row Your Boat and rocked me until I fell
asleep.
nice!
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