Grandma's Stand

Silence crept into the house and made itself comfortable. I looked at my mother, asleep on the couch. The lines on her face stood out more than they had a week ago. She had worked so hard the last few days, making the arrangements, dealing with Dad, making sure that the family was set up at the hotel. I tried to help as much as I could, but more often than not I ended up letting her take over. She was so much better than me at all this.

So, I ended up trying to process my grief alone. The little moments where you'd realize Grandma was gone, that you'd never see her dance again, those were the most painful. The undertone of deep sadness that filled all our days was something to be borne, something to be getting on with. I could deal with that, easy. But the sharp realization that Grandma wasn't going to be coming around for dinner anymore felt like a knife to the gut.

The kitchen was cleared of all the grief casseroles that appear like magic anytime someone dies in a small town. The leftover punch from the wake had been put in a pitcher in the fridge. Most of the pictures used for the memorial service were back in their respective photo albums. Mom had already spread her ashes amongst the sweet smelling grasses of the prairie Grandma had loved so dearly.

The only thing left of Grandma sat on the counter. It was an object I wasn't sure how to deal with.

The chocolate cake sat in an etched glass cake stand. It was the last thing that Grandma made before she passed. We were calling the undertaker as it cooled on a rack. I caught Mom frosting it at 3am that terrible night, and told her to go to bed. She nodded in agreement, but I knew she had to complete it.

"You know that was her mother's cake stand?"

Mom caught me staring at the cake. I shook my head, even though I was pretty sure I had heard the story of the cake stand before. I wanted to hear my mother talk about Grandma. To soak up the moments and hear the memories again. They weren't my memories, but there was a desperate feeling in the air, like if we didn't talk about Grandma's cake stand, she would be gone forever from our lives.

"I didn't know. It's beautiful. How old do you think it is?"

Mom shook her head. "There's no telling. Grandma was born in 1918, so I imagine it was sometime before that."

"They must have been well off to afford a glass cake stand back then." Mom was nodding along with my postulating, and I couldn't help but smile. "The older cake stands that I've seen are all wood."

"They were well off. Mama said they were the first people in town to get a Model T," she shot me a look. "Did she ever tell you about the time she stole the Model T to go take a ride with a barnstormer?"

"No!" I laughed in delight and let her tell me a story that I'd heard many times.

She gestured around the old farmhouse. "This place was considered palatial back then."

It was hard to believe that the rickety house that I knew used to be considered a mansion. The pine floors were worn and sloped in every direction, and everything smelt faintly of Old English and mothballs.

The wooden furniture that crowded every room was all handmade by a Grandfather I had never met. I only knew three things about him: he loved to work with walnut, he smoked like a chimney, and that he looked like country version of Humphrey Bogart.

I had never asked Grandma about him. The realization hit me like a semi-truck. Mom was the only person who could tell me about him now. The tears came readily, as if my eyes were prepared to shed them. Exhaustion struck me, and I realized I was bone tired of crying. The dull burning permeated my eyes like a red cloud and I scrubbed at them, trying to rub away the sadness.

I was dimly aware of Mom standing and coming to sit next to me on the couch. I put my head on her shoulder.

“I never asked Grandma about Grandpa, Mom,” I choked out. “There are so many things I never asked her.”

“I know, honey, I know,” she soothed.

She stroked my hair, and with a strange maternal magic I didn’t understand, I was a small child again, capable of having my hurts cared for and dissipated by a simple touch. I leaned into her comfort, wishing desperately to be a child again. Children didn't have to deal with life like this, all sorrow and responsibility. They could just take the sadness as it came, with no other worry. Not me. I had to go to work tomorrow.

A moment later, a terrible thought came to me.

“Mom, who will comfort you now when you’re sad?”

She chuckled, the first laugh I had heard from her in weeks. “Your dad is alright at it. Mostly I have my memories of Mama to keep me going, I think.”

She stole a mischievous glance at the cake stand.

“I also have her sour cream chocolate cake recipe, in case the memories aren't enough.”

We shared a look.

“Should we?” I asked. There was a hush over the room as we both eyed the cake.

Mom nodded, overly solemn. “Yes, Laura, it is our duty. Her last cake must be enjoyed by two generations of her offspring.”

“Was that written in her will somewhere?” The smile on my face felt foreign, but also decadent.

She nodded again.

I shook my head, and let out a giggle.

“I don’t know, Ma, it seems kinda wrong to eat her last cake.”

The silly act fell away and she became serious.

“No, her last creation must be savored and enjoyed. I mean it, you know? All of her efforts had such an impact on this family, on me, on you,” she gestured at me, and I caught a glimpse of tears glittering in her eyes. She was deadly serious.

“It would be wrong to let her last effort be wasted.”

It was my turn to nod solemnly. “I’ll get plates.”

“I’ll make coffee.”

A few minutes later, we stood in front of the crystal stand, admiring the etched flowers, and the lovely chocolate cake within its clutches. Mom removed the lid with a flourish, like a French garcon lifting off a cloche in a fancy restaurant.

We both leaned in as if to smell the cake, caught eyes, and laughed.

I handed the knife to Mom like a queen with a sword at a knighting ceremony.

“You do the honors, Mama.”

She smiled and proceeded to cut into it slowly, and I realized that I was holding my breath. Somehow this cake had become the summation of a woman’s life. I held out my plate as if receiving a solid gold confection.

We paused, our forks raised.

“Do you want to say something first, Mom?”

“The heck with that.”

She sounded so much like Grandma in that moment, I almost started crying again. I wanted to savor each second of this time we had together.

“Let’s eat.”

It was the best damn chocolate cake I’ve ever had. And it was all Grandma.