Free Tender Graces by Kathryn Magendie Page A

to spirit feet patter with me back to my room.
    I say, “Who’s here with me?” But I know they won’t answer. It’s not their time yet.
    My brothers’ room waits for me. And Momma’s room—how will I ever go in there and face the empty, the un-Momma of it? The clouds of powder, the twisting curtains where the wind rushes in, her chattering moods that came when she was feeling happy. I head right on back to my room, humming a song, some old song I heard long ago. It comes up from deep inside of me and tickles my lips as it rushes out.
    I do a twirl to my own music, then say,  “Hear that, Grandma Faith? I bet Momma’s wishing I’d hum something she can do a jig to.”
    I hear Momma snorting.
    I stop my twirl, close my eyes, let my hand wave over the things on the bed, hovering until my fingers feel warm and tingly. I open my eyes. One of Momma’s fancy department store bags is under my palm. I put my hand flat on it, press down to feel the heat in my fingers and across my palm, and then I open it. Inside are photographs, and cotton balls that held the perfumes Momma loved. Channel No 5, Tabu, Shalimar. I spill out the memories.
    A photo of Andy, Micah, and me lands on top of the rest. We are grinning so big our mouths hurt, Popsicles held in our hands, the juice staining our arms. The photo is black and white, but I know that I had cherry, Micah had grape, and Andy had orange. I have on a sunsuit, Micah has jeans rolled up at the ends and a striped shirt, and Andy, only shorts. I remember playing in a summer rain, slapping each other with wet towels. Hide and seek. Cold Kool-Aid and crisp Saltines. Lying back on the grass to guess the cloud shapes. Naming Grandma Faith’s puppies, first picking them up and smelling the puppy breath as their little heads wobble back and forth. Our feet green after the grass was fresh-mowed. I see it all, from this one photograph. See how slip slap happy we were in that time right there . How it could have always been. If only. I don’t like if onlys , but here they are anyway.
    Under that picture are a few of Daddy when he was a boy. What was it like for Daddy growing up with Mee Maw Laudine? Four little pictures are my clues. I hold up the one of him when he’s a bitty thing, playing beside a well. Beside him is his one brother who was three years older. I know that Peter died from a fever when Daddy was thirteen. In another picture, Daddy’s about five, swinging on a tire swing, his face pulled into a scowl.
    In the last picture he stands beside a man. Daddy’s arms are crossed over his chest, a shadow covering his face so I can’t see what his eyes hold. On the back it says, “Frederick, 15, and his new father.” So many mysteries to Daddy and to Momma. I won’t be a mystery to Adin; she’ll know it all because I am writing it all down, just as Grandma Faith did for me. Just as Momma tried to do with her scrawled additions?
    I study a photograph of my momma, Aunt Ruby, and their brothers, standing in front of an old beat-up truck, barefoot with untamed hair. Aunt Ruby has an ugly frown on, bent down a little, scratching at her big old leg. My uncles stare out at the camera, their faces full up with mischief. Uncle Hank’s the oldest; I never did get to meet him. Nobody knows where he took off to. I imagine he’s living in the forests deep, drinking out of the creek, and stealing people’s chickens to eat. It makes me both sad and happy to picture him running wild and free. Uncle Ben grins lopsided at Momma as if she’s the maker of the stars. He has a moon-in-the-eyes look. I wish I’d known my lost uncles better. More if only’s .
    Uncle Jonah stands right by Momma. He has his hand on her shoulder, as if he’s keeping her from floating off into the blue yonder. And Momma, she’s striking even under all that wind-swept hair and West Virginia dirt. She has her hands on her hips, one hip jutted out. Her head is tilted back so that she’s staring right at the