Grief

With the recent death of his father in addition to the brutal sting of his mother’s death last Winter, sixteen-year-old Morgan was lost in life.

While staying with neighbors since the destruction of his home, memories were all he had left of his family’s farm.

He longingly recalled the photos of his mother and father, smashing their chocolate wedding cake into each other’s faces. He smiled slightly at the mental image of the time he first heard that story. He’d ended up hearing it so many times since that day. He didn’t quite like chocolate cake himself, but he’d wanted to keep Mammie in their lives. The death of his maternal grandmother was the first death he’d experienced in life. Even though he was just six years old at the time, it hit him hard. Now, he found he wished he could see his parents’ happy faces. He wished he could even have some of Mammie’s famous chocolate cake. After all these years he wished he could see Mammie. He wished for too much now, he knew that.

“Hey.” Wilfred said tentatively as he entered the living room, but it still startled Morgan. “Sorry.” He said quickly after Morgan shook from the start.

“No, I’m sorry, it’s ok Wolfie.” Wilfred “Wolfie” Baxter had been Morgan’s neighbor and friend his whole life. Their families had owned plots next to each for a couple generations. Thankfully, the Baxter’s homestead had been spared the despair wrought the week before.

“My mom says there’s something here for you.” He jerked a thumb towards the porch.

The boys walked out the front door and were immediately accosted by Ms. Baxter.

“Morgan! How are you dear? It’s a beautiful day. You really should sit with me a bit. I insist.”

“Thank you, Ms. Baxter. I’ll do that.” Morgan said out of sheer etiquette. He had no intention of doing so today. “Um, Wolfie said,” the use of Wilfred’s nickname to his mother was already a screw up that she would’ve normally scolded him for. She named her son Wilfred, that was his name, period. Why would anyone want to go by a name other than that given by their parents? The confusion over this unknown delivery for him paired with the guilt of using the nickname. Morgan was unsure what to expect right now and his face showed it. “Uh, um, sorry, Wilfred said there was something here for me?”

“I appreciate the correction.” Ms. Baxter finally said after what the boys would’ve sworn was an eternity. He was sure she was being lenient purely for the sake of the recent loss. The same behavior had lasted barely a month after his mom’s passing. He knew this wouldn’t last. Then again, he now had no parents. He had no idea what was going to happen next.

Where would he live? He’d surely not be able to stay with the Baxters for more than a couple weeks.

“Here.” Ms. Baxter twisted in her sun-bleached armchair. The once vibrant pink fabric with various pastel-colored flowers strewn about it had become so faded that unless you knew the flowers were part of a pattern it just looked to be oddly stained. She turned back toward Morgan with the brown parcel that was on the simple glass side table beside her. A small crack in the glass had seized the twine string binding the brown paper shut. As she turned, it released slightly.

“Let me help.” Morgan said quickly as he lurched forward to grab the package. He held it as Ms. Baxter pulled the twine free. This moment gave Morgan the opportunity to look over the package. “Who dropped it off?” he asked. There was an uncertainty of the legitimacy of this package now that he’d seen that it merely said Morgan Eschew on the front, scribbled in black marker, almost illegible and with a low contrast to the dark brown paper.

“It was here this morning when I came out to drink my coffee and watch the sunrise. It hadn’t been when I first brought my crocheting out while my coffee brewed; but between going in for the coffee and returning to my chair, it was there.” She paused, studying him as he looked over the package. The plain brown paper hadn’t seemed so out of place, but the recounting of its mysterious appearance had now stirred suspicion. Morgan was unsure if he wanted anything to do with something like this right now.

He heaved a sigh and sat in the plastic chair across from Ms. Baxter. Wolfie sat in a similar chair and scooted it closer to Morgan has he placed the package on his lap, his fingers pinched the ends of the twine and paused. He was suddenly hyper aware of the hot sun, the creaking wood deck, the lack of wind to give reprieve of the heat.

This was pretty big to be something for a stranger to drop by. If it was food for them as mourners, it would’ve been hand delivered and a big to-do would’ve been made, sitting together and having a slice or a bowl or a plate of whatever the dish was.

He finally pulled the strings apart and the rest of the already loosely bound packaging fell open. As he moved his hands around the package, pulling off the paper and twine, he was able to determine it was a large book. However, only once he’d pushed all the paper to the floor did he realize just what kind.

It was a photo album. Wolfie looked at it, confused.

“What is it?” Wolfie asked. Ms. Baxter watched from her chair; she took a sip of her coffee and replaced it to its coaster before Morgan had managed to silently open the cover of the album.

Ms. Baxter’s puzzled and stern affect shifted the second she witnessed the first tear flow down Morgan’s face. Wolfie continued to look between the book and Morgan, not understanding what was happening.

Morgan flipped the page. He flipped another, and another, and another. This was all the pictures he’d seen in his parents’ albums and more. Where had these come from?

He flipped to a page that had the wedding photos he’d been cherishing the memory of and mourning the loss of just moments before. The tears flowed freely. Ms. Baxter looked on. Her face betraying her typical steely disposition.

When Morgan got to the last page, there had still yet to be a word spoken.

There were papers from a legal notepad folded and tucked into the rear cover. Morgan unfolded them and found they were stapled in the top left corner. He began reading the first page to himself.

This is a letter to my dear girl, Joyce. I love you, of course. But there’s so much more to my love than I could ever express to you in words. I am writing this letter to you on the day I found out I was pregnant.

How, might you ask, could I possibly know it’s a girl? I just do! And if I’m wrong, then this will be a great laugh when you read it. I’m writing this to give to you on your eighteenth birthday. So, by the time you’re reading this, you’ll be blossoming into a wonderful young woman. Strong, independent, smart, beautiful. Just like myself of course. A true Morgan woman!

My mother wrote me a letter for my eighteenth birthday. Her mother had done the same and her mother before her.

Today is a Tuesday. It’s just after three in the afternoon. I’ve been craving chocolate and now I know why. I never really cared for chocolate before. I’ll have to learn to bake.

I love you. Did I say that yet? I love you so much.

I trust you will have so many happy years in your life.

With so much love… Mom.

Morgan was freely crying now. Wolfie did his best to console his friend, patting his back. Ms. Baxter however had come to stand next to Morgan. She read the letter over his shoulder and began tearing up as well. She patted Morgan’s shoulder and this display of affection was greater than anything he thought he’d ever receive from her. Wolfie never seemed to complain about a lack of tender motherly gestures, but compared to his mother, Morgan saw just how different people could be; but not as being good or bad, rather, just being.

As he sobbed and worked to not cry on the papers or crumple them in his trembling hands, he continued to feel the warm presence of her hand on his shoulder.

When he was collected enough to flip the page, he could tell his crying was not done.

I am writing this letter to my precious baby girl. My mother wrote me a letter to give me on my eighteenth birthday. As I write this, I am filled with such joy as I imagine the day that you yourself are eighteen.

My mother, Mammie to you, apparently we Morgan women always call our grandmother’s Mammie, told me that generations of Morgan women have written to their daughters. So, I am writing to you. Not purely out of tradition, but because I find it such a meaningful notion. I look back to my birthday when I got my letter from my mother. We had been fighting over a boy I wanted to go out with that night, instead of dinner with my family.

I was actually about to sneak out afterwards when she knocked on my bedroom door and when I answered it, she simply handed me my letter in a lovely envelope and walked back to her room.

We weren’t that close before then, but neither were we at odds with each other. This letter however, it made such a difference. I can’t explain it.

So, I’m writing this to you. Who knows where we’ll be in eighteen years? Still on the farm? Moved into the city? In the mountains?

Regardless of where we are, I know you’ll be in my heart.

I love you so much.

Morgan had been crying the entire time he read the letter; he had to wipe his tears away several times to see clearly enough.

Ms. Baxter could tell he had finished when he suddenly burst into uncontrollable sobbing. The boy heaved and gasped as he let loose every emotion.

He was interrupted when he felt arms around his neck and shoulders. He was stunned. He felt the pressure release, he opened his eyes and through the blurry vision, he saw Ms. Baxter’s caring face staring back at his. She leaned back in and squeezed him tightly.

After a moment like this, she pulled away and stood back up.

Having been released, Morgan flipped to the third of the four pages.

Morgan, my grandson. This is your Papa. Your father entrusted your mother’s letter for you into my care after her passing, as well as my dear Isabelle’s letter to your mother. Many of her things he’d left to me to be able to hold onto, actually. In the end, I suppose it worked out since it allowed me to compile this album for you in light of this recent disaster.

Having read the letter myself, I apologize for the invasion, but I finally understand just why your mother insisted your name be Morgan even though you were a boy; to continue the Morgan tradition.

Anyway, I would like for you to come live with me after the funeral. We can talk more about it of course, there’s so much to do. In the meantime, I wanted you to have this, which is why I left it with the Baxters.

See you soon, Papa

When he turned to the last page, he expected another letter, but instead it was a recipe. As he scanned the ingredients, his eyes finally made their way to the top of the page.

***Morgan Family Chocolate Cake***