It promised to be a busy weekend—something I usually despise.  I am fond of my ruts and the scheduled events and required preparations were most definitely going to drag me out of them.  Between Thursday night and Sunday evening, there were two batches of homemade ice cream to freeze (one strawberry and one chocolate), a birthday cake to make, two houses to halfway clean (‘cause I did have to actually work sometime), a joint birthday party to host at the magical cabin, an egg hunt to hold (meaning a plethora of eggs to hide . . . ‘cause the normal egg hunt had to be postponed compliments of a pesky pandemic), and Father’s Day to celebrate.  But I was the culprit who suggested every bit of it, and I really was looking forward to seeing everyone.

According to my calculations, by Saturday night I was three-fourths of the way through my rutless weekend—and tired.  So while everyone visited inside, I settled into the swing on the back porch, coffee cup in hand, and stared quietly at the pond/lake.  I say pond/lake because it seems too big to be a pond but perhaps too small to be a lake.  Wilson, the eleven year old that’s going on eighty, soon joined me as did his five year old sister, Cora.  Anderson (who turned nine in October) went inside to get a lighter and returned to light the citronella candles—not in a futile attempt to banish the mosquitoes but because he enjoys fire.  One of those candles was brand new, purchased just for the occasion; it was a three wicker, in a metal pail with a handle.  Anderson picked up that particular candle, walked over to the swing, and settled in on the opposite side from his siblings, carefully placing the candle in his lap.  And we all sat and listened to the owls and the crickets and the splashing of the fish in the pond/lake, until Anderson broke the stillness of the evening.

Anderson:  Let’s tell scary stories.

Me:  No.

Anderson: Why not?

Me:  I don’t like them.

Anderson:  But why not?  It’s just “The Hook”.

Me:  NO!  (At this moment every scary story I’d ever heard replayed in my brain, pausing on the one that ends with “Humans can lick, too . . .” I HATE that story.)

Anderson:  But why not?  It’s not scary.  (Then why did you say it was?)

Me:  Yes it is . . . and I don’t like scary stories.

Anderson:  Why not?

Me:  Because I don’t like being scared.

Anderson:  Why not? (Can you tell he’s nine?)

Me:  I just don’t like the way it feels.  I don’t want to be scared.  I want to be happy.  And peaceful.

Anderson sat for a few minutes, staring at the tiny flames of the candle in his lap, their glow lighting his face as he pondered my statement.  Then he looked up at me and asked, “Mona, what are you the most scaredest of?”

I almost said the dark, because it’s my stock answer and the absolute truth.  I have hated the dark since I was a child, probably compliments of my mother who used to threaten my brother and me with it if we didn’t settle down and go to sleep.  We shared a room in our younger years, because my parents built a two bedroom house, having been told they would never be able to have children.

Surprise.

Her punishment if we continued misbehaving instead of sleeping was to turn the night light off and shut the door, leaving us in total darkness.  So . . . if total darkness is punishment, then it must be bad.  Right?  I’m fairly certain her intention wasn’t to warp me but to ensure a quiet bedtime.  Unfortunately, she got both.

But for some reason, this time those words hung on my lips, refusing to come out.  I looked down at this adorable, imaginative nine year old with his tousled reddish blonde hair that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in months, and I knew my answer.

“I’m afraid of something bad happening to someone I love.”

That’s this adult’s way of telling a nine year old I don’t want you to die.  Or even get hurt.  I don’t want anyone I love to die.  Ever.  And honestly, my motives are purely selfish.  I don’t want the loss and the pain and the grief.  I don’t want to know there are memories that will never be made.  And I don’t want memories to be all I have left.  Yes, I’ve lost folks to Death before . . . my grandparents . . . my parents . . . and although those losses hurt, they were to be expected.  They were the generations before me and, when Life and Death play nicely together, they should leave before I do.  But there are definitely a fair number of people in my world that I never want to be without.  And I’m pretty certain the day will come when I’ll have to do just that, unless I’m lucky enough to go first.

We sat for a while longer, and then Wilson asked where the deck of cards was so he and his Papaw and Papa Joe could play “War”.  Anderson and Cora joined them around the wrought iron table in the dusky darkness while I stayed in the swing, holding my coffee that had grown cold and thinking about the people I love and how hard . . . how terrible it would be to have to live without even one of them.

And then I remembered that humans can lick, too . . . and insane serial killers with steel hooks for hands can have them ripped off by cars that speed away just as they plan to yank the door open.

For various reasons, there might have been a brighter night light than usual come bedtime.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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