Surprise in the Back Seat

A friend invited me to her house today to talk about current events, bless her heart.  Things like the plans for seminars on healthy eating I’m leading at church in the fall, and the Advent luncheon to be held early in December. My daughter’s move many hundreds of miles away.  You know.  Things like that.

She is wise. Keep moving ahead on the church plans, she said. Grieve hard on the loss of the kids.  Don’t stuff it.  Write stories about the granddaughters.  It's your therapy, she said.

On the way home, I made a routine stop at the drug store to buy printer ink and poster board - supplies needed to promote the church functions.  Returning to our minivan, I nonchalantly opened the side door and gasped out loud.  There, still securely latched into its usual place, stood the littlest granddaughter’s car seat, gaping empty like some yawning hippopotamus mouth.  Why did I still have her seat? We used to play peek-a-boo with each other in the rear view mirror. But now she's gone.  To Texas. 

Everything seemed to spin a little bit, although I didn’t dare look around to make sure.  I just stood there in the Walgreen parking lot for what felt like a very long time but was probably 30 seconds, frozen in place with hot July sun pounding on my back, staring at peanuts and raisins and dried milk spilled on the buckle, 

I finally dared to pick up a child-sized orange comb lying on the seat.  A single long, white-blonde, curly hair floated from it like a strand of silk.  Her sister’s hair.

My friend’s voice replayed in my mind.  Grieve hard, she'd said.  I did.  And I didn’t care if the vacant-faced guy with no front teeth in the car next to me watched the alligator tears drip down my cheeks. 

And write stories, she'd said. Here I am, doing just that.