What Grandpa Antone Saw

"What a pretty picture."

He wasn't looking at anything in particular. His eyes were open, but he seemed somewhere else, far away.

He had taken to bed some days before. "Old bones don't work no more," he said.

Now he seemed to be fading.

"What a pretty picture."

His singular soft voice carried echoes of Kansas in the cadence of his speech.

What did he see? The cornfields of his boyhood home?

I hear his voice in my ear as if, once again, he could speak.

I don't hear it in my head. In my ear.

Funny how you can hear a voice for a lifetime, and then one moment you never hear it again.

Never.

Never ever.

Until now. I hear it now in my ear.

"What a pretty picture."

What did he see? The farm? The gorgeous green that comes with the spring rains?

Or was it the light?

Light.

That light.

The bright light I see now, as his voice softens in my mind to become my own voice, that same inner voice you have and I have, inside our heads, that voice that always talks.

"What a pretty picture."

Yes.

More than pretty.

Glorious.

What a glorious, pretty picture.

Death is the easy part. One or two last breaths, and you slip away. The hard part is over. Those agonizing days and weeks are over.

"What a pretty picture." So this is it. I always knew it would come. I knew he would come. We all wonder how that final moment will be. And then suddenly it is here.

His voice came for me.

One or two last slow breaths and we fly free.

Carried away.

Maybe that's a better description. Kind of like flying. But it's more like being pulled. Pulled away from the earth, carried high above. Light. Yes. A splendid light. A glorious light. Such a pretty light.

They always said that.

You'd see a light. They, who had near-death experiences. You see a light. An amazing light. And your life flashes before you.

You also see babies. No one told me that. The ones you knew. All sorts of babies. The ones you cared for. The ones who grew. You see them at the end, all of them, until one of them you see, you know, you just know, it was you.

Isn't that something? (How bright the light is!) We all begin like that. A tiny little baby. That was me. I was that darling little baby.

You keep getting pulled along. No time to linger. The light pulls you.

That's him! Little Antone. The youngest of them all. Good little Tony. Such a good boy. Always did what everyone asked. Never a trouble to anyone.

I see his older sister. She doted on him. Mary Ann loved him. Dressed him like a little doll, she did. Always combed his hair. That nice wooden comb felt good on his scalp when he'd come in sweaty and dirty from the fields, and she'd wash him up.

Mary Ann got married on her 18th birthday. Little Antone was 12, getting taller by the day. What a beautiful big sister. Such a lovely girl. Only 18. Lovely girl.

A nice boy from the farm three miles down proposed and they were married a month later. They loved their cows. They loved their corn. They were hard workers, those two.

(Grandpa Antone's eyes watered whenever he spoke of them.)

She was only 18. Nine months later, she had a baby boy. Who could ever be happier?

(Then Grandpa would bury his face in his hands. He told me this story several times. The first time when I turned 12.)

"Why did she do it?" He would start to cry.

I had never seen a grown man cry.

"Why? Why?"

We were sitting at the kitchen table playing Go Fish.

"Before her baby had his first birthday, she took a shotgun from the barn, walked to the end of the cornfield, and shot herself dead."

I saw the desert.

The desert where I grew up.

Desert light. Arizona sunlight streams over the tiled patio floor. Hot. Dry.

My little brother and I race around the dusty driveway, riding our tricycles.

How I loved my little brother. There he is again. So cute. Baby Davy.

The Arizona landscape, the rocks, the parched hills, had their own special beauty. Even at three years old I recognized that.

Wait. Now everything is green.

That's Kansas again. Antone is 15. Working hard in the fields. Helping out his Mama, who often cries in the kitchen when she thinks no one is looking.

Good little Antone. Rest in peace. Green quiet fields where the only sound is the rustle of wind through the corn stalks.

We become dust in the wind. Only dust in the wind. I hear the song again. In my ear. All we are is dust in the wind.

I am pulled back by this wind to the dry desert sands. I see the parched hills. Do we always return to the place of our childhood?

I want to rest here. Right here. Merging with everything. One with the sun, the wind, and the sand. Carried away. Pulled away. Disappearing.

All is quiet now. All I ask for is quiet.

Why? Why?

Night falls. Where did the light go? There is night here, too?

Light has faded. All is calm now. A soft wind is blowing.

Time to go.

Silence.

Who was I?

Who am I now?

No sound.

Engulfed in the desert's

parched silence,

I was nothing

but another grain of sand

in the wind.

*

*

In memory of Antone B. Wenda.

Born Belleville, Kansas 1907.

Saw a pretty picture in 1996, before he was laid to rest in Ventura, California.

Notes:

1. Postpartum depression is now recognized as a treatable medical condition. If you or a loved one suffers from this illness, you can find help and resources by clicking here.

2. Reference made to the song by Kansas Dust in the Wind.