She had auburn frizzy hair with bangs. It curled around her ears and her forehead. Her deep wrinkles outlined the worry that flooded over her for her children. Her raspy voice demonstrated years of chain smoking that cracked with every word and rattled when she coughed. She wore an oversized red T-shirt with black baggy shorts and no shoes. The stench of nicotine burned my nose when I entered her house as a little girl.
I remember the thirty-year-old orange sectional couch she had in her living room. It swallowed me whole when I sat next to my dad. The stone fireplace in the corner of the room looked big enough for Santa Claus to come through with no magic. I heard my dad’s voice and my Mamaw’s short replies.
My Mamaw sat in a chair beside the fireplace with her hand over the ashtray that rested on the end table between her chair and the sectional couch. She nodded her head at the things my dad said. I cannot remember what they discussed. I do recall the smell of nicotine. I inhaled the scent and felt it burn my nostrils as I exhaled.
I do remember the day I found out my Mamaw passed away. The night before, I could not sleep in my bed. My friend was staying at my house, but I told her I could not sleep. The world seemed to shift out of orbit that night. We sat in the living room and drank water as we watched Nickelodeon. My dad was on the road. He worked as a car dealer and needed to go pick up some cars that weekend. My mom took care of the house along with me and my friend. After hours of laying with my eyes closed. I finally went to sleep.
Why do you drink water before you go to bed?
It is good for your lungs, Hollyann.
The next morning, I would not believe that. How could anything be good for my lungs, if they eventually stop working? I wished my lungs were for my Mamaw. I wished she could use them to continue breathing. I inhaled and exhaled, and I fell into deep sleep.
I woke up and to the sound of my mom’s bedroom door closing. She was on the phone with my dad. I did not know how I knew it at the time. Maybe it was the tone of my mom’s voice. The low whisper as the words left her lips, What’s the matter? Or maybe it was the way she rushed into the bedroom so I would not hear. She flew past the couch like a dove, calm and quick. The sun was shining bright that morning, but it felt like twilight. My friend slept soundly on the couch across from the loveseat I slept on, but the room was so loud as my ears rang.
The following evening, I went to my Mamaw Katie’s house to eat dinner with her. My friend’s grandma came and picked her up at noon that day as they had plans that evening. My Mamaw Katie went outside to water her plants as it was late June, which in Kentucky was a dry part of summer. My great aunt called, and I answered.
I am sorry about your grandma, Hollyann.
What do you mean? She is outside watering her flowers.
No, your other grandma, I heard she passed.
The orange flowers outside bloomed bright in the evening sun, while I drooped in the dining chair. The phone call ended, and my heart sunk beneath the floorboards. I got on my hands and knees trying to fish it out, but no matter how much I reached the water in my eyes blinded my vision. I inhaled the truth and exhaled all of my questions.
How?
Why?
When?
Why am I upset?
Where is my daddy? Who else knows? Is she really gone?
Who was my Mamaw Mary?
She passed away on June 23, 2015.
I remember her funeral. I cannot remember what she looked like nor what she wore. Stepping up to her casket like a sunset touching the ocean before nightfall, I placed my hand over hers. There was no more nicotine that burned my lungs or hers, but smoke remained in the air. The dust did not settle, yet she slept soundly in the red wood coffin. Her chest did not move, showing me that there was no air that could enter and exit her lungs.
Please, breathe and wake up. Tell me you know me and love me. Tell me how similar we really are as you hug me. Be my Mamaw like you were to my cousins.
She did not wake up, but something inside me did. A breath of fresh air felt like bleach to my lungs. It choked me as I tried to exhale. I coughed and tried to inhale again only for my lungs to repeat. Nothing could be good for my lungs at that moment. I wanted my Mamaw to have fresh air. I wanted her lungs to inhale and exhale.
I felt like I was living Plato’s cave of going from the unknown to discovering the truth. When I left the cave, the sun burned my eyes as I found life outside of the cave. There was no more twilight for me as I left the cave of ignorance. The shadows on the cave walls of who I was to my Mamaw deceived me. I was in the twilight for so long that her death beamed a new understanding into me. I learned who my Mamaw was to me when I left the cave. A truth that changed me forever.
I discovered that chain smoking causes a series of issues for an individual. A cigarette that gave satisfaction and relief to a troubled person. A woman with three children that she felt she could never love enough. Her husband left after abusing her mentally and physically. She blamed herself for not helping them better. Her children observed the bruises that formed upon her skin and her heart.
With a match, these aspects worried her.
With a puff, they ignited her.
With a breath, she let go.
After her funeral, I learned that my dad stood over his mother. Salty tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked over her sleeping body. All the moments of her calling him to tell him she worried about this person and that person seemed to no longer matter anymore. My dad struggled to believe anxiety and depression were real concepts. When his mother passed, I think he discovered the truth as well. His mother possessed a feeble mind. She wanted to control things and fix people. She never knew that God did not create her for this purpose, but to simply breathe.
My dad breathed in and exhaled.
Mom, all those times you worried. All the sleepless nights, the pain-stricken mornings, and the countless phone calls, they do not matter anymore. ◆
Hollyann Lewis is a senior at University of the Cumberlands. She is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in both History and English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. She plans to graduate in May 2025 and pursue a MAT from University of the Cumberlands. She uses imagery in her writings to reach all readers who love nostalgia.
Pensworth 