Gardenias

Momma was taking me to the big city that beautiful summer morning. We were visiting my Godmother, Aunt Florence, whom we had not seen since I was an infant of less than two months. Momma told me that she had held me in her arms as the priest baptized me in church.

I was dressed in a pink pinafore and wore white stockings, and had white sandals on my feet. I danced about excitedly outside while I waited and was very careful not to get any soil on my shoes. I didn’t dare sit down anywhere so as to not wrinkle the back of my pretty dress. Momma had combed my hair and made long banana curls that bounced all around my head with every movement. The curls had almost reached to my shoulders. The top of my hair was flat with a part to one side and she affixed a white bow at the back. I was bubbling with joy and couldn’t wait to go on this trip.

Finally, my mom was ready and we were on our way. We walked to the subway station and boarded the train that took us to the city. From there, we took a taxi that took us to Aunt Florence’s house. As we entered, all the strange people prancing about took me aback. They were standing here and there, some sitting about in every room of the house.

My mother took me by the hand and we went into the living room. It was full of beautiful flowers and I was immediately nauseated from the scent, especially the Gardenias. Then we came upon this woman laid out in this fancy long box that was set in front of three windows with draperies drawn to keep the sunshine out. On either side of her resting place, there were two tall pole light fixtures, their globes a bright red, and they reminded me of uniformed guards standing at attention and protecting the box and its contents in that very awesome room. As we approached, momma lifted me in her arms and I stared down into the face of my godmother. Momma had not told me that she had died. I was very upset at the scene, especially the never-ending scent from the flowers that invaded my nostrils. I couldn’t wait to leave there. I wanted to go home.

As small as I was, I didn’t tell my mother how disappointed I was by the trip and that I had felt sick. I had come face to face with one of life's realities and an innocence was lost; a lesson learned. Momma was satisfied that I was able to see my godmother. I found out later that Aunt Florence was no relation, but her best friend. They had separated when my mom married my dad and moved to live where we were. They had not seen each other after the Christening.

That trip remains in my mind to this day. I still get a sudden headache or feel slightly nauseated at the scent of gardenias; a constant reminder of a little girl’s past.

05/06/2002

Added note:
The starting words of this story are my recollections of that fateful day. It's a child's view of the events of a joyous day. She was dressed beautifully and was so happy and carefree. Then......
Relating this true account has really helped me cope. It's a great release putting those thoughts into words and sharing them with you.

As far as I know, wakes are no longer held in most private homes, and I hope parents are selective in permitting small children to attend funeral parlors.