I awakened to the sound of footsteps on the pine wood floors. The cold air on my face. I was warm there underneath the many layers of quilts she had tucked us into the night before. They were heavy and comforting, holding me safe in the warm bed. She always said goodnight with a kiss and a hug, her soft skin smelling of Noxzema. I still love how Noxzema smells, probably because of how much I loved her. The footsteps belonged to my grandfather. Each morning before daylight he would light the heaters. The scrape and strike of the sulfur kitchen matches, the smell of gas and the whoosh of the gas igniting. Soon the fragrance of the rich black coffee and cigarette smoke would drift in as I drifted back out. It was a cold wet Louisiana winter.

We had been outside working in the garden, weeding and planting and preparing. Well, my grandmother did most of the work. The kids were here and there, running, exploring, climbing our favorite trees. She had the best trees. A boy could lose himself in one of those. My favorite was an ancient Holly in her front yard. I would sit at the top of it for hours, suspended there between heaven and earth. The birds would light in the branches just feet away from me and if I was very still I could watch them, unseen. Cardinals, Finches, Blue Jays, Mockingbirds all came and taught me of the world. The smells of spring mingled in the clean fresh air swaying my perch back and forth. I was a king for a little while. She called us in to eat lunch, then set about arranging us on the knotty pine floor. Pallets she called them and we were expected to sleep. The heavy quilts from the winter now laid out for our nap. She turned on her little black and white T.V. and as it warmed up that same song and that picture of an hourglass told us that it was time for silence. She sat in her chair with my grandfather’s belt rolled up in her lap and was quick to use it on us if we stirred. Because her “Stories were on . . .”

One summer it rained fish. Small bass and bream and minnows were flopping in the grass. We asked her how they had gotten there. She explained how during violent storms over water small fish can sometimes be swept up in the currents of the wind and dropped again miles away. She knew everything. How to find worms for fishing. How to fish. How to clean and cook that fish. How to make things grow. How to make us grow. And she taught us when we would listen. One of my favorite memories of her was sitting on her screened porch nestled under her arm. Warm and close without a fear or worry in the world. There was a violent thunderstorm raging around that place of utter calm and contentment. The forked light streaking, splitting the sky. A clap and a rumble and a boom of thunder shaking the earth. The smell of clean ozone and the fresh summer rain. I still love the storms, and the smell of Noxzema, and growing things, and fishing, and understanding how things work. I think God must have a swing like that. Those moments there on the swing and a thousand others like them remain with me even now. She is the picture of grace to me.

One winter day I received a call saying that something was wrong at her house. Rushing there and running inside I saw her laying on that pine wood floor. Paramedics pushing on her chest, breathing air into her, forcing it into her lungs, her belly distended, color a pale gray. She did not move or speak or react in any way to their efforts. I really did not understand what was going on as the men quickly placed her on a stretcher and rushed her away under the lights and the screams and the roaring of the ambulance. I saw her a few days later, laying in her coffin. Her hair was done and she was wearing a pretty dress. There were flowers and many people around. There was that strange funeral home smell with way too much perfume on way too many women. I was not sure if it was right or not, and I did not ask. I reached out and touched her skin. So different than the warm softness that I knew. I kissed her forehead and cheek as I had often done. She was not there. She was still teaching me. She taught me grief and great loss. I cried, and I wailed. I had not learned to hide and bury my pain, yet. Then later that day there was food and many people at her house. I think my grandfather lost his way that day. He sat still amidst the bustle of eating and laughing and crying and the telling of memories of her and of our lives together. I was quiet too and watched and listened, not really knowing what to do. I felt very alone and I missed her so, disconnected and adrift, I had no words. But one night sometime after that I dreamed. I could smell the Noxzema, feel her warm soft skin touch me as she called my name. She told me “Boy I’m OK and so are you. Everything is alright.” She teaches me still.