I have Always Wondered...

 I have always wondered why my grandmother died.

She was dead long before I was born; my dad was just two years old. His father, his brother and his sister were left on the farm in Northern Maine to fend for themselves. Dad tells me stories of sitting on the floor of the tractor with his brother. Dad was the brake, Clayton was the gas. Cindy was up top steering the tractor across the fields to help their dad, shouting commands at her two younger brothers.

There are whispers in the family about her death: A hysterectomy gone wrong? Something about her lady parts? Had she lost another baby? These mysteries are bound in the recesses of time, lost to those of us who stand before her black and white photo and wonder, who she was, and why she left so early.

It seems the women in my family have had hard luck with early deaths, and desperate lives. My aunt Cindy went on to see her father remarry and bring three more children into the family. My Grandmere loved them and raised them all - to the best of her ability. The stories go that Cindy was not very keen on being loved by this new mother, and from what I can tell, they struggled.

Cindy married and had five kiddos of her own. Her husband is what one might say was, 'a piece of work.' Her life was hard. Yet, my memories of her are of making silk flower bouquets, and sitting in her kitchen as she taught me how to make 'gravy' for my dad - the right way. When I would wake early in the morning, I found her sleeping on a cot in her office, giving me her bed. The piece-of-work had the primary bedroom. I stood in her doorway, watching her sleep, my stomach clenched in first glimpse of understanding. Cindy died from cancer very young. The last time I saw her she made me a delicious dinner and hugged me so tight. And then she was gone.

Today, I sit with Grandma Blanche and Aunt Cindy on my heart. Aunt Tina has just called to tell me my cousin, Dawn is in hospice. It won't be long. 

Dawn, the daughter of Cindy, also has terminal cancer. She is just fifty-eight. We are not close. She is much older than I am and lives back East. As a child I was fascinated with her leather jacket, her mullet haircut,  her motorcycle, and her love for Joan Jett. Today my heart is heavy with another Woman of North with hard luck and a desperate life. Too young. Too early. Too soon.

Leaving me to wonder.

Why?