It was a hot humid summer day at Emma's funeral. As I stood amid the mourners at the burial tent, all I could think of was her very last words to me before she succumbed to the results of old age exacerbated by juvenile diabetes.


I sat by her side, a constant vigil, holding her hand, even as I drifted off to sleep. I felt a stir, a slight movement that pulled me from my stupor. I peered upon her aged but graceful face and saw a faint glint in her eyes. Her parched lips seemed to beg for mercy, and I quickly gathered ice chips to soothe her need.

She turned her head slightly and began to speak. I put my hand to her lips and told her to conserve her energy; she could talk when we got home.

"My sweet, sweet, child, I'm not going home."

"No, Granny, please don't say that. You are coming home and soon."

"Jimi, death is nothing to be afraid of. One day, you'll understand."

"It's unfair, Granny, it's unfair."

"Perhaps, Jimi, but memories are forever planted in your heart and love gives meaning and beauty to everything, in spite of death."

"Memories cause more pain than comfort."

"I use to think just like you. I've fond memories that caused me great pain, but as time marched on, I realized they were the only thing I had to hold on to of him."

"Granny, I know you miss Grandpa. "

"Yes, I do, but he's not whom I'm talking of."

She's delirious. I grabbed a towel, dipped it in ice water, and placed it upon her forehead.

"Granny, please rest. You've been through a lot. Lie still and quiet. I love you."

"I'm dying child. You were always my sunshine and my best friend. Look in the bottom of my bureau drawer. You'll understand. I leave them in your care."

"Okay, just rest now."

Her breathing became labored and three days later she slipped into a coma. I prayed for this life to release her of her excruciating pain. Yes, I prayed for her death; but I also prayed for her life. She died twenty-four hours later.

My heart was heavy with grief, but this was as good a time as any to sift through Emma's estate before her children turned it over to the experts who sold gathered treasures of the departed. Her instructions and curious statement played repeatedly in my mind.

Now I stand on her porch, the porch where I placed jelly jar aquariums of tadpoles, baskets of succulent peaches, watched the trellis of Morning Glories bloom, sipped ice tea in the eve, and listened to the industrial age of traffic and a choir of crickets. The place where I fretfully announced the coming of each new life. And on this porch, still hung the weathered swing bench where I let my tears fall upon her apron after each teenage heartbreak, and the ultimate heartbreak, the dissolution of my marriage.

I pulled the keys from my purse and opened her door. Perhaps the final time I will ever do this.  I tiptoed reverently through her humble abode. My fingers traced her delicate antiques and lovingly fondled her collection of miniature porcelain keepsakes displayed in a mahogany shadow box.

Upon entering her bedroom, I closed my eyes and breathed the heavy-laden scent of lavender mixed with aged wood.  I laid across her bed, pulled her pillow close to my heart and sobbed uncontrollably. My mind was muddled with grief and loneliness. It was not just Emma's death; it was the death of everything I cherished, my Grandmother and my marriage.

I had fallen asleep. I awoke startled and temporarily confused as to where I was. Yes. I am at my sweet Emma's home to find and to keep her secret.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains and the rays seemed to focus on her bureau. It was this very room where I played endlessly, donning her Victorian costume jewelry and her gloves. As I ran my hand across the distressed oak bureau, I marveled upon my childhood memories; for in it held the magic that fueled a child's imagination. I always wondered what was in the bottom drawer, but could never peek, for it had a keyhole that was locked at all times. I never knew where Emma kept the key to this drawer and had no idea where to look. I put my hands on each corner and tried to pull it open, but it would not budge. Opening the top drawer, I rummaged through her dainty handkerchiefs and lace scarves, but to no avail. I decided to look in her cedar closet. The task appeared a bit daunting, for stacked high on the shelves were boxes and boxes of life and seventy years of frugal clothing. In the far corner of the closet was a step stool. I retrieved it for use when I heard a small but loud clank hit the wooden planked floor. The very key I needed.

Upon opening the drawer, I found nothing but some small containers which held pictures and a few baby trinkets. I sat on the floor, pulling the boxes out and mulling over the pictures one by one. Such a rich history in sepia and white, faded from their moments of glory. One stood out among the rest, my grandmother at a very tender age standing next to a young man who appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. No hint of physical intimacy struck my eyes, but both seemed to be enamored with each other. He was not my Great Uncle, nor was he my Grandfather. I put the picture to the side and continued to clean out the drawer. The drawer was now empty of all its contents, yet I found nothing unordinary about Emma's life treasures and memories, except that one picture.

Glancing inside the drawer one last time, I notice a keyhole in the floor of the drawer, much like the one to lock the drawer.  It looked the same and it took only one attempt to unlock this secret compartment. The thin board creaked at its hinges upon opening. On dark red velvet lining, bundles and bundles of neatly tied yellowed postcards and several frayed envelopes. All notes tied together by bright yellow  ribbons that appeared as if the dainty silk trimmings were bought yesterday.

My heart began pounding loudly, for I knew these contents held some secret to my Grandmother's heart, coveted quietly and locked away for decades. My hands trembled as I painstakingly untied the first yellow ribbon. I began to feel uneasy, feeling that somehow I was invading her privacy. Tears began to well. I closed my eyes to revel in her sweet memories and take in the very strong scent of lavender that seemed more pronounced.

"Open my child. They're in your care. Now you will understand."

Her words were as clear to me as if she had just whispered in my ear. Logic dictated my thoughts, but still, chills began to travel through me and up my spine. My mind is playing tricks; it is her memory that makes her voice real.

The first postcard

1917, December
Emma, Emma, my love
I think of you often, please take care
All my love,
Edwin

1918, June
Emma, the nights are long
I long to be in your arms
I love you as no other, my Emma
Edwin

The cards spanned time, across the oceans far, from taverns to barracks to battlefields of blood in France. Each card was more endearing than the one before. Emma must have lived for these cards, for on each lay a lipstick print. On the bottom of the last stack of cards and envelopes was a letter written by Emma with a returned hand stamped across the face addressed to a Sergeant Edwin McAllister.

Gently prying it open and removing the aged letter, a small dainty band of silver and another post card from Edwin fell out. The date of the post card, September 6, 1918.

My dear Emma,
Only a few minutes to give you my love. I feel like an old man, but I am fine. I hope that I will always be your knight in shining armor, though my armor might have holes in it and a bit tarnished when I get home. I love you, my darling. Edwin
 
The letter I held in my hand had an ominous feel to it. Opening it gently, it read:
 
Edwin,
My dearest man, I love you dearly and cannot wait until you return. Mother has been so kind as to fit me with her wedding dress. You will, always, always, be my knight in shining armor. I do not care how many holes in your armor or how tarnished it gets, our love can withstand anything.
Your loving sweetheart,
Emma

How very haunting were these words written by Emma.

Just three years before, we sat together on her porch.  I broke the news to her that John and I were filing for divorce. I was distraught and confused. She gently and lovingly held my hand, focused and intent on all I was saying. Ironically, I told her John had been my knight in shining armor, but his drinking and compulsive gambling had destroyed my image of him.

"My child, when knights in shining armor survive war, their armor is riddled with holes and tarnished. Do you love him?"

"Very much, but loving him can't change him. It's a losing battle and our family is suffering."

"True, loving him cannot fix the armor, for love isn't about fixing someone, sweet child; it's about understanding and helping one walk through a relentless hell that is not his fault or yours. Love doesn't give up and it stands strong in the face of adversity. It's about holding on to the good times and embracing the trials with courage and conviction."

"But Granny, I don't think he has courage and conviction. I used too. Viet Nam has done a number on him. I cannot and will not go down with him."

"Jimi, I was talking of your courage and conviction. His courage has been tested and tried and because of such, he is suffering. Many never come back from war in the physical sense, but many more never come back in the mental sense. War kills more than just the heart, sweetheart, it buries one's soul. Take hold of your knight, sweet child. Help him disinter his soul. Moreover, if you take anything from this, remember one very important thing. "

"What is that, Granny?"

Tears welled up in her Irish eyes, "He came back."

I now fully understood her tears. They were not just for the great love she had for my life and me, but for Edwin. 

I folded the envelope and placed it gently in its sleeve. Gathering the priceless bundle of memories and taking inventory of the things I would hold on to, I left with all letters in tow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The palms of my hands were sweaty. Standing outside his door, I contemplated leaving, but Emma's words echoed relentlessly. Only in her death, did I really listen and hear what she said to me that day on her porch.

"Take hold of your knight, sweet child. Help him disinter his soul. "

John, my knight in tarnished armor, opened the door and I opened my arms.