The Singing Lady

    by Caitlin Peterkin

Her name was Josephine. But everyone called her " The Singing Lady," because that's what she was. All my life I knew the sound of her melodious voice, rich and sweet, like golden honey. She shared this gift with everyone she met - and I wanted to be just like her, with a voice everyone loved to hear. I longed to grow up and be as wonderful a singer as she was. She was beautiful, with fair skin and milky white hair. Even as she lay there, in the bed, still as a lake in the peaceful morning, with blank eyes, wrinkly waxy skin, and a rotten stench about her, I saw my grandmother as a jewel.

Slowly my mother and I stepped into the room. I heard the sound of Grandma softly humming to herself , like a bumblebee. "Hi, Mom," my mother choked out. I felt her pain deep in my heart as she gazed upon her own washed out mother. A woman whizzed past the door going down the hall in the second floor of the nursing home. I swallowed back the saltiness of tears ; my throat felt tight, and I struggled with breathing. I longed to look at my grandmother as she was twenty years ago, with dark wavy hair, an olive complexion, and dark eyes, full of joy and laughter. And her singing. Oh, her wonderful singing I wish to hear now so very often.

It was about nine years ago that the dreadful thing happened - Grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. She was admitted to Eastgate Healthcare Center. The building had the pungent smell of old people rotting away. I can honestly say that whenever I stepped into the nursing home, I felt like death was creeping all around me. Men and women slept in their beds, fragile, like a butterfly's wings, waiting to be crushed, waiting to be broken, ready to have life taken away from them at any time. Just like Grandma.

Around September 2000, conditions worsened. My mom called her brothers, my uncles, and their families out here to Cincinnati. We all knew that shortly our loved one's life would end.

We filed through the doorway to her room, all cousins, aunts, and uncles, and looked upon the faded old woman. Tears slowly trickled down the freckled face of the eldest grandchild, Courtney. She was the grandchild closest to Grandma. Each family took their turn visiting with her, even though they were never acknowledged by the elderly lady.

A few days later, early in the morning, my mother received a call from my grandfather, saying that she was getting weaker by the second. Mom fled from the house to say goodbye to her mother, her best friend. It was that day when Grandma passed away.

We had a short memorial service later that week, at a funeral home, for her body to be cremated. All the men wore dark suits. I watched as my uncles carried the box into the fire, and Grandma was turned into ashes.

Afterwards, we gathered at my house. We all sat in the living room, and listened to one of my uncles sing and play on the piano. He wrote a song about Grandma, one of my favorite tunes ever. And as he sang, his booming voice filling up the air, I heard another sound. A woman's voice, coming from above. I glanced at my mother, who was trying to sing along and guess the words to the song, but the sound was not hers. Looking over to my sister, I noticed her lips were not moving. Then I recognized the voice, rich and sweet, like golden honey. Helping my uncle hit all the high notes, making beautiful harmonies. My sister also heard it, and we just stared at each other. Because we knew whose voice it was.

Now all those memories are jumbled, like pieces of an unsolved puzzle. But I can still recall the night in the living room, hearing that voice one last time.

I don't remember her appearance too much anymore. But I have never forgotten the way she sang, how her eyes were bright, and her face glowing. And the beautiful tone of her voice. Grandpa remembers her as "Jo." My mother remembers her as "Mom." And I will always remember her as "The Singing Lady," my inspiration to music.