muse of the month

Gone Pearl Gone

Kim Sisto Robinson

 

~in memory of Pearl

 

 

My grandma’s name was Pearl, which was extremely apt since she was like a beaded necklace with so many facets and colors and jewels that she is the person I clearly see as I ponder the greatest influences of my life.; Pearl, with fluffy- blonde-cotton -candy hair; Pearl, who painted her world on blank canvas; Pearl, who introduced me to Dickenson, Frost, and Parker; Pearl who exclaimed often, “Kim, look outdoors, nowthat is a true painting!”

 

In Pearl’s house— bread, cakes, molasses, cinnamon, and chicken soup (with dumplings) filled the air like a sort of love feast.  “Sit down.  Eat. Eat. Eat.” She’d say.  I wonder why I’ve always had a weight problem!  How could somebody EVER turn down chicken soup with hot buttered bread?  Nope, not me. That’s like turning down heaven.  “Oh, no, I’ll take fire and brimstone instead. Thank you very much.” 

 

 Pearl wrote poetry for me.  Can you imagine?  Yeah, words that felt like warm little hugs all over my body.  “Come on over, Kim, I’ll read you poetry!”  “OKAY!  I’m comin’ right over!”  Boy, did she know the right person to ask.   No wonder why I loved this spunky, chunky, cotton haired, poetess!

 

But she wasn’t one of those prim and proper grandmas.  No.  Once at my house as we sat talking about books and painting and poetry, she suddenly got this sly grin on her face and pointed towards our golden retriever, Rusty, who was sprawled out on the kitchen linoleum.  “Why,” she asked,” does that mutt have such large, ugly balls?”  And she wasn’t talking about base balls. After I hesitated, absorbing her question, I laughed so hard I felt a tinkle roll down my jeans.  Okay, I admit it, I peed my pants.   The unexpected makes me do this.

 

When I moved back home after living abroad, Pearl phoned immediately. “Get over here and do some yoga with me!” she demanded.  “Oh, welcome home,” She added. This woman was 75 years old and had purchased a yoga mat, video, and the garb.  When I arrived at her house, there she was in black spandex leotards with matching black tights.  “Where’s my grandma?”  I asked.   “Cause the only person I see here is Jane Fonda!”

 

Pearl was the first person who read my poetry.  “Noooot Baaad.”  She’d smile, “a little dark, perhaps, but not bad.”  All of Pearl’s poetry and stories were about her life on the farm in Ely, Minnesota. “You know what I miss the smell of?”  She looked at me with serious eyes. “Cow shit.” I couldn’t help but giggle at that.

 

I am reminded of an EE Cummings poem when I think of Pearl”

 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

 

So, Pearl’s face is who I see as I ponder my great influences, encouragers, and mentors.  She was always there with words and books and chicken soup (with dumplings); Pearl, with her paintbrushes and oils; Pearl, with her tattooed language; Pearl, with her Jane Fonda outfits; Pearl, trying to fit three lives into one.

 

Pearl, my blood.

 

At 82 years old, Pearl forgot my name.  Her heart still beat, but she was already gone. I wish she would have sent me a letter or given me notice, but instead I had to find her lying stiff, staring up at a ceiling fan that hummed wildly above her head.  I held her tiny hand and cried.

 

While she lay in bed, I painted Pearl’s toes nails bright red.  I recited Dickenson and Frost to her. My aunt Carol said that she noticed Pearl’s blue eyes twinkle as I read, but all I observed was her drowning, plunging into a place I couldn’t reach.

 

Last time I saw Pearl alive she was sleeping, her small breaths like something trying to escape, something trying to fly away. I noticed the roses next to her bed fading, dying; the petals dropping to her lace table cloth like lemon tears, an ending.  I couldn’t help thinking that it was an ending for me, as well.

 

Sometimes when I’m blue, I try to capture those memories of Pearl to warm me, hold me.  And it’s funny, because most of the joy I gather are the smells of her house; bread baking, molasses, cinnamon, and chicken soup(with dumplings) simmering on her old stove like my entire childhood.