The Table Was Always Set

Emily Curle
EVWP Summer 2009

I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter. –Winston Churchill

Uncle Whit was an interesting character. He owned a llama and an ostrich, both of which lived in his backyard. That is, until the day the City of Williamsburg told him they were against a regulation or an ordinance of some sort.
Never around much, always on the go, we weren’t sure where he was at any given moment. One of the first to own a “mobile phone”, and quite possibly the first person of his extended age to own such a gadget, he would often call my grandmother, his sister, using the device. Giving her perplexed thoughts about such technology, she often didn’t get how he could talk to her and cross the bridge to West Point at the same time.

I remember that a place was always set for Uncle Whit at the Thanksgiving and Christmas tables. The shimmering white china plate with its silver threading around the lip, the crystal glasses, the sterling utensils, displayed proudly on the crisp linen; all stood guard, waiting for his arrival. It was an arrival that was never fulfilled. In all my adolescent years, through all those holiday meals, never once did he show up. It was always just a “maybe”. No matter how many years he didn’t come my grandmother was steadfast with his place setting. He wasn’t a thoughtless man; he always called, usually from that car phone, to give his well wishes.

One day, this ended. I can only remember the season, not the month; not the day. I think it was 1998, but this, too, is hazy. Uncle Whit drove his big navy Lincoln down to the shore of the Pamunkey River. Then there was just the car. Sitting there. Alone. No Uncle Whit in the car; no Uncle Whit anywhere. The story goes that he got out of his car and just walked into the water.

Goodnight, goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it is morrow.
–Romeo and Juliet Act 2, scene 2, 176-185

I don’t remember how old I was when I realized that everyone dies. That I, too, will die one day. Once I knew I had trouble not thinking about it. Instead of having nightmares about monsters under my bed or in my closet, I would often lay awake thinking about death. I would wish for sleep, but my thoughts wouldn’t allow it. I would run down the hall to my parents’ room, and my mother would try to comfort me. I was unable to express what was bothering me, and eventually sleep would take over.

Every once and awhile death pops into my head, and I am caught off guard. I unintentionally think about it for a few moments. I have to busy my hands to distract myself. The fear for me is the unknown. Is there really anything after this? The possibility of an after-life is so difficult to comprehend. Not having much faith doesn’t help. Always forced to attend church and Sunday School as a child, I grew up resenting it. Now as an adult I never attend. I’ve tried to go with family here and there, but the habit never formed. So much of what religious beliefs are based on seems too far- fetched to me.

Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
–Eskimo Proverb

I finally had one of those dreams. You know, those dreams that you read about or see on a TV movie. The ones where a loved one speaks to you in a dream, appearing as a bright figure, comforting you and making you feel that all is right with the world. A couple of months ago, I had the dream.

The loved one I miss the most is my father’s mother. A fine southern lady, she knew the entire family history, from a third cousin’s wife’s name to a great-great-great grandfather’s occupation. Every meal was always decked out in full “Leave it to Beaver” style, complete with a homemade dessert. Rarely did dining take place in the kitchen. She cared for me when I was sick, with red Jell-o, Price is Right on the television, and naps on her sofa. She taught me “Spoons” and gave me afternoon snacks of “nabs” and the smallest glasses of Coke I’ve ever seen. She’s the only lady I’ve ever known to put raisins in brownies. She made family scrapbooks before it was the popular thing to do. She believed in fresh flowers on the table every day, and thought artificial ones an abomination unforgivable.

It wasn’t until her death that I so fondly remembered all her quirks and acts of love. Already out of college and a working adult when she passed away, I still remember the call from my father. It was my third month or so of my first “real” job. It was around 10:00 in the morning, and the last call I expected. I remember the swish-swish of my corduroy pants as I rushed into the cold to hurry to my car. I remember not eating for the couple of days afterwards, and then feeling guilty when my mother finally convinced me to eat a meal. I remember the minute details of those days, down to the exact outfit I was wearing the day I got the news and the pork tenderloin dinner I had chosen to finally eat. But the funeral and the people around are still a blur.

I have this gold locket on a long chain that belonged to my grandmother. The locket sort of looks like a medallion, and I can still picture her wearing it, as she did on so many days of her life. I never wear it, but it has a special place on my dresser, like it is only meant for me to see. When I am upset, I hold it and it brings me comfort.

On the night of my dream I don’t remember being upset about anything. It had been an ordinary day. Perhaps subconsciously something was bothering me, or, maybe not. I awoke the next morning feeling happy, secure. My grandmother had come to me in my dream. She looked as she had the last time I’d seen her, but she was the brightest figure in the dream. There were others nearby, as if we were in somebody’s living room, but I don’t know who they were. She took my hands, smiled, and told me that she loved me. She told me everything would be just fine. I smiled back in my dream. That was it. The dream gave me a renewed sense of hope and faith. For the first time in so many years, it made me want to go to church. Also, for the first time ever, I truly believe there is something after this.