Free Making Waves by Cassandra King

inevitable giant magnolias I built tree houses in. Of course as an adolescent I came to appreciate the edibles: apple, pear, peach, and pecan trees, plum thickets, blueberry bushes and grapevines. An unbelievable smorgasbord.
    When Daddy Clark took me from his cold, loveless house and brought me here to live, I felt I’d died and gone to heaven, early on confusing my Aunt Della with one of the heavenly host. At that time, I wondered if this bustling gray-haired woman was actually my mother instead of the mysterious Charlotte, whom I couldn’t remember. No doubt I blocked out my earliest memories for a reason, for I hid behind Aunt Della when Charlotte finally reappeared in my life. Old Charlotte the harlot, my sainted mom, coming in with too little too late, not realizing she’d been replaced in my affections by an aunt she’d always scorned.
    I sat in the car a minute, taking it all in, unable to believe I was home again. It seemed like forever, like I’d been around the world or on a long ocean voyage. But here it was, my home. Suddenly tears stung my eyes and a huge lump came in my throat. Damn. I’d missed the old place more than I realized.
    I lugged out my suitcase but didn’t bother with the other junk I’d thrown in the backseat in my haste to get away. As I slammed the car door and started up the dark walkway to the porch, I saw the front door open slightly, and Aunt Della peeked out. Unable to contain myself, I shouted, “Aunt Della—it’s me!” and practically knocked her down bounding up the steps and grabbing her in my arms.
    â€œOh, Taylor, oh, my baby!”
    She was crying and laughing at the same time, and so was I. It had been months since I’d seen her and I couldn’t get enough of her—I hugged and hugged and laughed and laughed. The prodigal returns.
    Aunt Della had killed the fatted calf for me, too. She refused to talk to me, to even answer my questions about how she was doing, until I’d eaten supper, late though it was. I put my suitcase down and she got back into her walker, a new apparatus I hadn’t seen before.
    â€œBe patient with me, honey,” she said as we began the walk down the long dark hall to the kitchen in the back of the house. “I can’t get around like I used to.”
    That proved to be an understatement. As I walked beside her, both hands out ready to catch her if she fell, she limped along, bent over the walker, moving painfully and slowly.
    â€œGod, Aunt Della—I expected to find you really bad off, but you look great!” I lied to her as we walked along together. Again the lump in my throat. God, how could she have gone down so much since I saw her last?
    Aunt Della was a big-boned woman, though not fat, who’d always looked robust as hell to me. She had short-cropped gray hair that she had no patience with, never going to the beauty parlor like her cronies. But I saw now it was almost entirely white, and much sparser. Her print summer dress was wrinkled instead of meticulously ironed and spotless. I noticed for the first time that even in this unbelievably hot house, she had a shawl around her rounded shoulders. She’d completely changed, turned ancient now, her gnarled liver-spotted hands clutching the aluminum walker desperately.
    â€œI made all your favorites,” she said as we went into the kitchen, and I felt even worse. How could she have managed? Why hadn’t I been considerate enough to bring in some hamburgers for supper—damn it to hell. I didn’t know if I would be able to stand this.
    Aunt Della led me into her big old kitchen to what she called the breakfast table, as opposed to the dining room table in the musty dark dining room in the front of the house. She was of the old school; if you ate in her dining room, you had the antique lace tablecloth and linen napkins and gold-rimmed china. We used to eat like that every Sunday and every time company came.