Candlelight Breakfast

Hotel 1

 

My grandma, the only grandparent I had left, died. Peacefully, an infection; she was almost 90.

I flew to Albany to be with my family; Mom, Dad, sister, two aunts, two uncles, four cousins. My immediate family stayed in an old hotel with hallways that looked like the ones in The Shining. A religious group was having a convention there and fancily dressed old people with nametags and names like Fred and Susan strolled about, talking softly to one another with big cheesy grins on their faces. A man with a nametag asked me if I was a child of the Gideons. “No,” I said, “I’m just waiting for my dad in the bathroom.” My sister and I had our own room two floors above my parents, and we went to sleep early the night before the funeral. The mattress felt old and soft and I sunk into it as if I was lying on Jell-O.

 

Dream 1

 

My family and I were standing in an open field, a deserted battlefield. We were victorious, celebrating and hugging. Suddenly, many men appeared in the distance with huge cannon-like guns pointed at us. We knew we were going to be shot at, but we accepted this fate. Mom, Dad, me, my sister; we looked at each other and we said goodbyes. We were standing in a circle. I hoped, in that moment, that there would be an afterlife and that we would reunite there, maybe in a matter of minutes, and I prayed for such, which was something I wasn’t used to doing. Somehow I knew what to expect, and that the bullet would be going into the back of my head. I closed my eyes, my back to the guns. For their hugeness, they only shot small bullets. I didn’t hear the shot but I felt, lying there in the battlefield or my bed, wherever I was, a pressure, but no pain, in that spot in my head where I knew it would be. I felt my body release, but then I heard a long groan. An awful, animal sound and I knew it was the sound of life escaping someone near me, someone I had loved in my short lifetime. It was then that I felt my body resisting. Resist death, resist afterlife.

I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. I couldn’t move my limbs, and the pressure in my head was still there. The groan became a softer lull, like a continuous long breath, and it was coming from the air conditioner now, incessant. I turned my head to the side. My sister slept, snoring lightly. I just lay there, breathing.

 

Sister

 

My mother called up to our room in the morning, to tell us to get ready. My sister had two dresses to choose from. One was an old one of mine that looked better on her. The other one had white flowers on it and I thought it too happy for a funeral, though I didn’t tell her that. She wore the other one anyway. It looked good on her.

She blew her hair dry and straightened it, ironed her clothes, and put on eyeliner. She checked her phone for any texts she might have missed from the night before, when we went to sleep early. I told her my dream. She said it was “weird.” I couldn’t explain the pressure or the noise. She was annoyed with me for wanting to wear the same shoes as her; we both had the same pair, hers a size smaller.

My mom rang again and told us that if we wanted to we could write memories of my Grandma to be used in the funeral by Flossy, the woman directing it. I wrote my memory on the hotel’s complimentary pad of paper, which had a little rising sun watermark at the top. My memory was short and sweet. My sister wrote hers afterwards, using the back of the sheet too.

 

Memory

 

One of my fondest childhood memories was of my candlelight breakfasts with Granny. In later years, she would remind me of them as if she was scared I had forgotten about them, which of course, I hadn’t and will not. We would both wake up early in the morning and sit at the kitchen table, just the two of us. She would light the candles and pour out the Cheerios and there we would sit, talking quietly until the rest of the house awoke.

“What did you write about?”

“The candlelight breakfasts.”

“Huh? What’s that? Why was I never invited?”

I honestly didn’t know, but I couldn’t remember her ever being there.

 

Hotel 2

 

On our way out of the hotel, the Gideons lined the foyer and their eyes peered at our name-tag-less chests. We bought pre-made muffins at the hotel store and made our way out the glass-paneled doors, heathens. In the car we made fun of them; Fred, Susan, Harold, Joseph…

 

Funeral

 

The funeral was run by the woman named Flossy, who had no left hand. I was startled when I realized this, and almost annoyed at the fact that the lack of hand was taking my attention away from my Grandma. It was a small funeral in a pink room. Granny was cremated so there was no casket, which we were all happy about. Flossy talked of Love and Memory and Grief and Faith. She read our memories aloud. My cousin was embarrassed because he thought the memories were being buried with her. He had written about the time she gave him one of those toys that was probably recalled three months after Christmas; it was a toy fire truck and its wheel had ripped his hair out minutes after receiving it; Granny hadn’t seemed to care. Everyone laughed. We laughed at my sister’s memory too, about making Play-Dough food with Granny. She wrote about how we used to sneak bites of the salty dough, thinking somehow the mini hot-dogs and hamburgers we had created would taste as cute as they looked. Most of us laughed but my sister cried. It made me uncomfortable.

I wondered if there was more laughter than tears at many funerals. I didn’t think so.

The grandchildren, and then the sons and daughters (aunts and uncles), were called upon to light the candles of Love and Memory and Grief and Faith from the “eternal flame” candle in the center. When it was our turn, my sister lit her candle from the center flame. She held hers to me to put back in its place.

“I see your grandmother taught you well how to work with others,” Flossy commented. And again, the was laughter.

 

Dream 2

 

I must have had visions of death prancing through my head as I slept, the next night, in my own bed; black sheets. My own room, air conditioner turned off, like always.

I can’t remember how it happened. I came home, to a strange house, but home, to find my mother, who calmly stated that my sister was seriously injured, and on “life support.” I didn’t know exactly what this meant. I went to see her in a bed, many tubes and machines hooked to her body but a peaceful look in her eyes, and she was awake. She couldn’t make words but she smiled, and I saw she had bandages everywhere and they were bloody, but her face was untouched and youthful.

I prayed again, hoping I was doing it right. I must have, because my prayers were answered. Some time passed; I don’t know how long. It may have been years in dream world but five seconds in real time, but the next time I saw my sister, she was sitting up in the same bed, the same look on her face, and she was laughing.

I woke up, my body not frozen but shaky, and I was scared. I looked around but there was no one there. The room was dark and the clock was flashing 12:00, and the alarm had not sounded. I didn’t know if it was morning, or night, or somewhere in between, but it was dark. With a jolt I raised out of bed. I couldn’t think of how to get up any other way, fearing if I waited, that I might lie there forever.

In the kitchen, the lights did not turn on. I found a lighter in the designated drawer of random things, and an unused candle in a shelf. I put it on the kitchen table and lit it, staring,

breathing.

 

Reviews

[Rachel]

This story was absolutely beautiful. The words read like a poem and pulled me into the perspective. The character's feelings and thoughts felt honest and heartfelt yet unique and individualized. The variations between her dreams and reality provided a nice insight on her character and the way she was affected by the death in her life.

[Dan Hiland]

It's such a pleasure to read a story like yours. It feels polished, flows well, says just enough before moving on, and slides back and forth from the real to the surreal. Reminds me of the way I felt when my father and grandmother passed away a few years ago. Grief came and went like someone flicking an On/Off switch in my heart.

Going from actual events to dreams (and back again) is a great touch. The dialogue sounds natural and unforced.

My only question is about the usefulness of the headers. They are located where natural breaks in the narrative should be, but they seem to get in the way more than help- since the separate sections speak so well for themselves.

All in all very nicely done. Being a big fan of memoirs, I look forward to reading more of your work. Take a look at some of my pieces when you have time. I need all the help I can get.

Welcome to the site!

[Penny Lane]

Thank you Dan! I really appreciate your feedback. I actually first wrote this for a class in college, in which we had to write something using repeating motifs throughout. I felt that the headings added some kind of clarity, that helped the reader understand the changes in the narrative, and also showed the repetition. I think they do a bit more "telling" than "showing," however, now that I look back on it. I'll definitely check out some of your work. Thanks again!