On the day when I learned that Sadie died, I hung up the phone, took a few paces, and shook myself before returning to the kitchen to wash the dishes. As warm water ran over my hands, I tried to wrap my mind around the idea that Sadie was gone.

I hardly had seen Sadie since we kids had left home; on occasion I spoke to her by phone while she sat in her Denver mansion and I, in my Philadelphia twin house. Distance and years had long separated us among other things that are more complicated than words. But her death meant a disappearance, an evaporation, a permanent silencing of a person. I squirted soap on the sponge and gazed through the kitchen window at the lemon color forsythia bush. The chore of washing dish after dish helped me process the message given over the phone by Sadie’s friend. The idea of death floated through my mind like a mist - where was I supposed to hang my thoughts? How was I to respond - when would I cry - were my feelings as frozen as those stiff statues I’d seen in museums?

I leaned on one foot as I rinsed my mother’s china, painted with delicate roses. The rhythm of circular scrubbing, the employment of my hands, the task of scrutinizing the cleanliness of each plate, became my parallel focus, as I waited for my emotions to surface. I should have been devastated. After all, I had known Sadie all my life; she was my mother’s only sister and some of my siblings’ favorite aunt. A thought formed and I stopped washing a cracked plate - Sadie was not my favorite aunt. And actually I wasn’t that fond of Sadie, and Sadie was not that fond of me. In fact, Sadie picked on me. At an early age I already knew that she resented me while she adored my older siblings, Robert, and Karen. I wondered if her enmity towards me was her way of showing allegiance to her favorite nephew and niece. Perhaps she rejected me because I, the youngest of five, was the “unexpected” child.

My behavior about Sadie’s death perplexed me, and in this moment I could only label my grief as a form of respect. Respect for family, respect for my mother’s sister, respect for Sadie’s life, itself. I shook the water from my hands before drying them on my favorite embroidered towel. Thoughts poured through my brain like molasses as I moved in slow-motion. Perhaps I missed the idea of Sadie being gone, more than I missed Sadie, herself. I imagined whenever her name would surface, others would avert their eyes, shake their heads, whisper her name as if she were realms away. Upon seeing a photo of Sadie, someone’s throat might tighten into a ball and mumble - “God Bless Sadie”, taking out a handkerchief, dabbing the sides of their eyes. Certainly there were others who had grieved Sadie in the way I imagined was expected.

Years after Sadie died, my adult life has been marked by births, graduations, awards, anniversaries, misunderstandings, deaths - a blur of events attached to a sequence of time. For some 30 years the forsythia has witnessed the whirl of activity that has passed through our house, now emptied, and hollow of children. But lately, the forsythia has been losing its flowers more readily. From afar, it sends a faint, delicate fragrance through the kitchen window, and. instantly, I’m back to that day, gripping the phone receiver as Sadie’s death was announced. I suddenly hear Sadie’s coy laugh, the rattle of her bracelet-clad arm, and see her moon-shaped chestnut eyes, full of life. My heart contracts; my matured soul understands that a long-buried grief has come to visit.

I watch the wind as it swirls and commands the movement of trees through our yard. The grass bristles, leaves tremble, the sun disappears behind the fast moving clouds while birds suddenly seem frantic. A blast of cold rushes through the window and as quickly as the weather has changed, my thoughts turn unhumored. I sigh, pushing myself through the task of washing my mother’s favorite green glass bowl. My mood darkens as I carefully buff and shine the glass piece, wishing my mother were here, annoyed by the sudden chill in the air and imposing grey sky.

In the corner of the yard, the wind beats the forsythia into a drooped melancholic gesture. I rinse the sponge with warm water as I watch the sky become a slate colored mass, casting a sudden shadow over the house. Between dense clouds and the piercing sun rays, light and shadow highlight the forsythia in various grades of yellow.

My grief arrives on the tail of the northward storm. Suddenly I realize that Sadie is swallowed somewhere in that deep grey sky. My heart catches, my eyes fill, and I disappear into thoughts with no measure of time. I conclude that I no longer know myself nor understand the power of loss. Perhaps it is in the sequence of one’s day, where one is standing, or when the clock strikes, that conjures a response to death; for years later, I find myself deeply mourning Sadie for the first time.

I push the darkness from my mind, focusing on the thinned forsythia's branches that still radiate its forever presence in my yard. I hang the dish towel to dry so that the embroidered side shows, and stack the dishes by color. This small act makes me feel orderly for the moment. I dry the sink, soaking up every little droplet that clings to its stainless steel finish. The sink is as dry and shiny as it can possibly be, which gives me great satisfaction. Before I leave, I check that the kitchen is picture perfect and turn off the light. Just as I exit, I hear the plunk of an escaped water drop from the polished faucet, splatter my spotlessly shined sink.

--Patricia King Haddad

The SEPTA bus stopped in front of the outpatient building, as it did every Tuesday, at fifteen past two. Seventy-eight-year-old Janet got up and walked toward the exit. It was time for her weekly chemo appointment. The usual driver, a forty-something slightly heavyset black woman, smiled and greeted her as she walked by.

"You have a blessed afternoon dear, see you next trip."

The five-foot-one-inch, petite, gray-haired Janet smiled back. The front of the bus dropped down a little, and carefully she stepped off onto the waiting sidewalk.

As both feet hit the ground, she felt a strange sensation. She looked at herself, and she saw the features of a young Janet. She hurried, quite quickly, to a storefront a few hundred feet away to check her reflection in the window, and when she got there, the sight took her back. There she was, a younger version of herself. Oh my God, she thought, I'm young again, I'm not sick. She giggled a happy laugh and felt no embarrassment.

What was in the window gave her an exciting chill for a second. In plain sight was Woolworth’s lunch counter. Quickly, she went inside; she couldn't believe it was real.

The little round stool spun Janet around, and in a few minutes, the tastiest root beer float of her life was in front of her. Looking up, she focused on a calendar. No, no, it can't be—my God's May ninth, 1961.

Upon finishing her float, Janet, feeling recharged and full of zeal, decided to walk over to Speares and maybe Weinbergs, too, and look at some clothes. She strolled along Market Street in a Chester that she hadn't seen for many years. So many memories went through her mind as her journey continued. On to the seventh street, she turned the corner; coming toward her were two young men dressed in U.S. Army uniforms. Suddenly her spirit went dark as she thought about Rick, her younger brother, who was killed in Vietnam. Sadness overtook her even more as she thought of her mom and all the grief she went through. Soon her mom became the main stage in her thoughts. The only young Janet she knew had her mom in it. Everything seemed so much different than she expected it would be.

She stopped for a minute and sat on a bench taking in the beautiful weather, still thinking about her mom and how important she had been in her life. No matter how tough things got, somehow, Mom always found a way to be there for her and the rest of the family, and friends too.

She thought about the flood of nineteen seventy-one and how it destroyed her childhood home in Eyre Park, about how she helped Mom and Dad out by having them stay with her and her new family until they found a different house.

As she sat there thinking and reflecting, a funny feeling began to come over Janet. It began to occur to her that her visit wasn't going to last forever. She just sat watching the world of yesteryear go by for a few more minutes. The cars and people dressed in nineteen sixty-one clothes, but mostly, the city around her. A vibrant place that was still in its prime.

Suddenly Janet decided to go to her happy place, to Chester Park, and sit on the rocks next to Ridley Creek. She got up and walked a few blocks to the bus stop to catch a ride to the park entrance.

The smell of diesel exhaust filled the air as the Red Arrow bus pulled up at the corner stop to pick up Janet. She boarded, anxious to be back to where she and her friends spent so much time as kids. Before the coins ever made it to the farebox, Janet awoke to a gentle nudging on her right shoulder.

"Mom, Mom. How are you doing?" asked Jackie, Janet's daughter. "Are you ready to go now? Is your stomach O K?"

"Hello, dear, I feel fine. I'm ready to go now. How are you feeling, Jackie? How's Tom? How are you two getting along?"

"Thanks for asking Mom, I've had a bit of a stressful day at work, but I'm good. Tom and I are good too." Jackie took Janet by the arm, and they walked past the desk at the oncology outpatient center.

"You two have a good evening," said the woman at the desk. J and J walked out into the hallway toward the elevator.

"Thanks, you too," replied Jackie

"You know Jackie, have I told you lately how lucky I am to have a daughter like you?"

"Mom, you haven't in a while."

"I am so blessed. I want to take you and Tom out for dinner after we leave here."

"Are you sure, Mom? Is your stomach up to it?"

The elevator opened to the parking garage, and Janet took Jackie's arm as they walked toward the car.

"I'm OK; if I get a little nauseous, maybe I'll have a ginger ale and something small."

Jackie shut the passenger door and walked around, and got into the driver's seat.

"What's going on Mom, why the sudden kindness? Did you get a bad prognosis?"

"No, Dr. Amin says I'm doing great. I want to treat you and Tom to dinner tonight. I know I've been a little difficult lately. It's not that I want to make it up to you; I want you to know I love you and appreciate you and everything you do for me'"

Jackie turned towards Janet quickly and turned back to focus on the road and then spoke a little emotional sounding.

"Thanks for that, Mom. I'd like that, and I'm sure Tom would too, you know, I could get used to this."