Anna’s days were filled with meeting Jackie’s friends, planning memorial services in two states, and making phone calls; letting people in her life know that her mother had died. She walked in a strange state of semi-consciousness, acutely aware of what needed to be done in the next immediate moment, yet unable to see or hear beyond that immediacy. She was so finely tuned to the present moment; there was no past or future. Anytime, which was hardly ever, she tried to glance ahead, a roar of sound and energy would swell towards her, growing in height and power as an immense wave. Before it could break and completely pummel her, tumbling and twisting her body, scraping the rocky floor, inhaling burning, salty liquid, she would cover her eyes with her hands for a moment, savoring the black pressure on her eyelids. Next she covered her ears, sinking into those familiar waves of sound, and finally, put one hand on her heart and one on the top of her head.
This became a comforting ritual, carving out a tiny space of the immense landscape of her life, allowing her to lift her foot and simply know that the stepping stone would appear the moment her foot made contact with the earth. Each stone was a single task. Call the kennel. Step. Breathe. Step. Take pictures of every single thing in this cottage. Step. Hug the kids. Step. Call Tara. Step. As she stepped forward, she glanced back from time to time, noticing with lazy curiosity that the stones behind her became less distinct; blurry, until they faded into grey, yet ever-present. It reminded her of using those very expensive erasers in art class; the ones that could blend a pencil line so beautifully when trying to draw portraits.
Eat food. Step. Sit in Mum’s garden. Step. Go to safety deposit box with Jack. Step. Write Obituary. “What the #@*%*!?! How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Anna had no idea where to put her foot down this time. Whenever this happened, a rush of impatience and frustration would “niggle at her”, as Jackie used to say. This niggling would persist until impatience bloomed into anger. This came to be known in this small family as “dropping her basket.” Anna got the expression from one of her’s and her mom’s favorite authors, Rebecca Wells. One of the main characters in “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood”, Vivi, went a bit nuts; became too overwhelmed with the fabric of her life, and “dropped her basket.”
Sit in Mum’s garden….Step.
Anna rushed out of the room into her mom’s wild English garden full of blue ironwork; a riot of weeds and flowers filling every corner. She plunked herself down in the yellow adirondack chair with the huge iris painted on it. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes, savoring the mingled scents of dozens of different herbs and flowers. Inhale. Wait. Exhale. Inhale. Wait. Exhale. Every inhalation a healing draught of aromatherapy.
Every inhalation drew Jackie closer and closer to familiar scents. The subtle perfume pulled her gently forward, surrounding her, each breath her daughter drew in pulling her more and more into focus. It was not unlike moving her face closer and closer to an object, until it came into focus for her once terrible eyesight. Soon the scents were all encompassing, and as she marveled at the details of these flavors and thrills, her daughter came into being; sitting back in her own garden chair. “Bloody Hell!” mother and daughter thought at the same time. Jackie grinned and felt a warm chuckle bloom in her belly as she watched the same grin spread sweetly on her daughter’s face, the sun beaming down on her brown skin. She watched as Anna placed her hands on her belly and chuckled, then lazily reached for “The Button Book”; one of her journals that closed with a metal button, engraved with a copper celtic trinity knot.
Jackie watched as her daughter read her words out loud, written so long ago it seemed, setting them free into her garden like butterflies dancing and flitting about, then settling delicately on a petal. She delighted in her daughter’s voice sending these word fairies out into the universe:
“Another Nana’s song-for Nadia. Red and yellow and pink and green, orange and purple and blue. I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too…”
Jackie sung the rest of it out loud with her daughter, their voices blending, creating currents that the butterflies seemed to trace in the air. “…Listen with your eyes, listen with your eyes, sing everything you see. I can sing a rainbow. Sing a rainbow. Sing along with me.”
Even as Anna sung The Rainbow Song aloud, she heard her little girl, Nadia’s, voice in her mind, singing with that chubby 2 year-old interpretation, “Listen wif yo eyes. Listen wif yo eyes. Sing every fing you see.” Warmed by this memory of her little girl and her Nana, Anna turned to another random entry in The Button Book. Sitting up a little straighter in the chair, Anna looked down at her mother’s handwriting; a story written to her grandchildren. Eight pages covered diagonally with words written in that beautiful script of all softly rounded capitals and strange punctuation.
“To my grandchildren. When you were curled, comfy in Mama’s belly, I knocked. I said, ‘Hello. This is your Nana speaking. I love you.’ Then, one day you knocked from inside Mama’s belly and said, ‘Hello! It’s Me! It’s time to come out.’ And I was there and said, ‘Hello. I am your Nana.’ And I put my mouth to yours and we shared our breath with each other. Sometimes I stay at your house and on cold, early mornings, while everyone is asleep, with cold, cold feet you jump into my bed-and we press our cold noses together. Breathe our warm breath together. Snuggle and sing together. ‘We’re warm and toasty’ and snug as a bug in a rug together. Sometimes, we go downtown together. We share soup and ice cream, jump in circles and squares and dance together. You and me. To the sound of the flute in the square. And when it’s dark and time for bed, we look up at the moon, and walk together, sharing hands to Nana’s house. Sometimes, when you are hurt, you come to me, ‘Magic Hands, Nana!’ And my skin and your skin, and my love and your love, blend together. And hurts go away, and we share breath, and it’s okay. Sometimes at the end of the day, I watch you playing in your bath. And then, when it’s time, I wrap you up, all pink and warm and snuggle you up in a big, warm towel. I carry you in my arms and hold you tight and we sing together. ‘Who’s my little who-zit? (Me!) Who’s my turtle dove? (Me!) Who’s my little who-zit? Who’s the one I love? (Me!) And we share laughing and loving and breath together. And sometimes when you’re not with me, I send you think-songs in my mind. And we share breath across space and time. ‘Hello, this is your Nana speaking. I love you!’”
Anna closed her eyes, savoring these magic words written by her mother, letting the tender weight of them sink as the sunlight sank into her bones. Languid with this warmth, she let the pages of the The Button Book run through her hands, letting the pages fall from her thumb as if shuffling a deck of cards. As she did this, one page stuck. She opened her eyes and looked down. Two words were scrawled diagonally across the page:
“Bloody Hell!”
Anna laughed out loud, carefully closed the cover, and snapped the button closed. Taking a deep breath, she reached for another journal, not sure she really wanted to read more, but unable to stop herself. Her hand delivered the one titled “For the Grand’s.” She opened it randomly and took in the words written properly this time on lined paper in purple ink.
“What’s important in my Life? My children. My grandchildren. My Integrity. What do I like to do? Garden. Drive Alone-following my instincts and intuition.”
“Got it. Thanks mom!” Anna smiled as she kissed each journal in turn. She walked back into the house and went about the business of writing an obituary.
Jacqueline V. Sweeney-Pettit
Jacqueline V. Sweeney-Pettit died in a fatal car accident on Sunday, September 14 at 3:00pm. Originally from Hartlepool, England, Jackie emigrated to the United States in 1968. She raised her family in New Hampshire before settling in Sheridan, Wyoming approximately 10 years ago.
Jackie is remembered by those who love her as having a huge spirit that joyfully spilled over to all she met, making lasting friendships across the country and abroad. She loved taking long road trips, spending time with her grandchildren, and growing beautiful flowers in her garden.
She will live in the hearts of her three children, her six grandchildren, and all the family and friends who knew her.
A celebration of her life will be held at the Big Horn Women’s Club at 5pm on Friday, September 19. Memorials may be sent to the following….”
“Well done, girl,” smiled Jackie, as she lingered just a bit longer in her beloved English garden, smack dab in the rolling, sage scented hills of Big Horn, Wyoming, softly hum-singing, “Red and yellow and pink and green, orange and purple and blue…”
In the Margins 
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