Bevie got diagnosed with almost pneumonia less than a week after her sister Bonnie died. My brother Peck took her to the Doctor. “Enough with the wheezing,” he said, reminding me, once again, so much, of the curmudgeonly love of my father. “Make sure she takes all of her medicine,” in a text, after he dropped her off at home. I responded with dosage taken, an assessment of the length of her coughing spell, a description with an appropriate epithet of Bevie’s first encounter with an inhaler. My sister Karen calls from New Jersey, I update her as well
This is love, I think to myself at the end of that first day as I glance in on her comfortable sleeping form; Barney and Billy, her beloved dogs, snoring happily in their usual spots. All of us rallying, remedying, feeling the ripples of our endless devotion emanate out of our tender hearts. She has taught us well.
It’s Sunday and almost 60; so warm that Bevie and I have turned off the heat and cracked open the windows upstairs and downstairs both. We watch the dust wisp around playfully in the sun rays as a soft breeze coaxes us into believing that spring is right around the corner. “Let’s plant peas,” Bevie says to me. “It will go really well with the mint that overruns. I’ll add two extra beds and you can do the kale and garlic that you were dying to do last year. What do you feel like having for dinner? Maybe thai? I’m just going to have the egg rolls and the sesame noodles. Order whatever else you feel like.”
It’s 11am, I just finished the gooey spinach omelet she made me for breakfast. I smile, “whatever you’d like.” Later on we take a walk around the block, coats wide-open, dogs in tow, prizing our lawn as best maintained. The lake shimmers enticingly, shards of ice bobbing around the melting puddles. Everything is alive, moving, taking in big gulps of the warmer air, rejuvenated; celebrating the serendipitous signal of a fresh start.