December 2024

April 1985

“When your Big Mama died, she left her body, so she’s in heaven now,” explained Sherrye gently as she pressed Ann’s untamed curls.

“Heaven?” inquired five-year-old Ann.

“Yes sweetie, heaven. That’s where God is. Sit still. Move your head down. Just need to get the kitchen.”

The child complied silently.

Sherrye continued working on Ann’s hair, carefully straightening the short hairs on the back of her neck using an extremely hot pressing comb. “Big Mama’s in heaven. That’s where Jesus is, and she’s gone to be with Jesus.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

“When we go to the funeral, you’ll see Big Mama’s body laying down in a casket.”

“What’s a casket?”

“A long box with a lid, where dead people’s bodies go to rest.” Sherrye continued. “Her body will be in the casket, but it won’t be her. She’s not in there. Her soul, the real her, she’ll be with Jesus.”

The sanctuary of Zion Hope Missionary Baptist Church was very blue. The crushed velvet upholstery adorning the tall windows, the pews, the choir seats, and the thrones for the deacons and the pastor, were a sky shade of blue. The floor was covered in shag carpeting dyed a similar color to match. Lacquered redwood trimmed the seating, which was filled with wailing mourners. A white casket with gold finish was propped on a dark wooden pedestal, the lid open to show the visage of an elderly woman clad in pink.

A kindergarten-aged Ann, wearing a silk black and white dress with bows, walked up to the casket with Marshall and Sherrye. She placed her right hand on her grandmother’s, which lay stiffly over the left. Big Mama’s hands were oddly cold, not a bit like the warm hands that would hold a young Ann on her lap in life. She remembered her mother saying that Big Mama was no longer in her body. Now, touching her chilly fingers, she felt that.

“Annie, tell Big Mama goodbye,” Marshall uttered through tears and sniffles of his own.

“Goodbye, Big Mama.”