santos scribes

on her birthday I drink my coffee black with two sugars, like she did. There isn’t a single cloud in my coffee on March 28th, only the gentle clank of a silvered teaspoon against the lip of my favorite coffee cup. This most comforting sound can be heard from anywhere in the house.

Deep chestnut brown, almost black- that was her natural hair color before it began to gray and lighten in her late forties. For as long as I knew her, she wore it cropped and cut close to her head. I never once saw a ponytail or barrette even. She had soft thick milky white skin and dark warm teddy bear puddles for eyes. Sharing the tender corner beside them were her crinkles of laughter, her rivulets of delight. She loved ice cream. The flavors coffee, pistachio and chocolate were hers and she use to blow on her first bite, too cold for her sensitive teeth. I loved watching her does this.

Christine was a woman of Godly faith but became more serious about it all after her first marriage ended in divorce. Before divorce she listened to Simon & Garfunkel, Kenny Rogers, The Beetles, but after her music choices were all worship based- Amy Grant, Point of Grace, Steven Curtis Chapman. She married twice, but neither were really right for her. She endured at least one bout of unrequited love in between her two husbands and I am certain it was love nevertheless.

Chris liked games of all kinds and mostly she stuck to cards: Cribbage, Gin, Dutch blitz- the blue plough deck for her, the green water pump deck for me- her love of games extended to sports and she was loyal and loud for the Boston Red Sox, the New England Patriots and both UConn basketball teams. A hometown kid through and through. Her hoots and hollers, deep claps and yips, not unlike that coffee coated chime could be heard three rooms away.

There was always something in her lap. A stiff cross-stitched scene or a soft crocheting project- the green and yellow of a Green Bay Packers afghan that last time. She was crocheting it for one of her five brothers the night before she died. She told me about it in that last email.

Her fingers were wide & solid, appearing cumbersome perhaps but she had a dexterity and speed all her own. She may have been happiest when her hands were full, busy bustling to make: taco salad, beef chili, a trifle cake or forever handwriting too many birthday cards and anniversary notes to count.

Each Sunday she’d wake early, drink her black coffee, comb her coarse hair and take her bookmarked bible from its place beside her bed. Her light blue pocketbook slung over her shoulder she’d drive herself to a church called Something-Something-Bible Chapel four towns away. This makes her sound old, but she wasn’t, she was just faithful and only 61 when she died. 73 now if that big ol’ beautiful heart of hers hadn’t given out when it did.

Christine worked the same job for 40 years. A desk clerk for the United States Navy, and it was the unforgiving ice just outside her office building that cold February day that caused her to slip and set into motion the string of events that would lead her to her death just a few hours later. When all was said and done, she’d died just three months shy of her retirement, a party she was planning for herself, already in the works.

At her wake and in some of the cards that arrived thereafter people would tell me “God must have called her up specifically” there could be no other reasoning. But I think most people carry more than they’re ever comfortable letting on and sometimes hearts just give out.

At my wedding, three months before she died, after the vows had been spoken but before the carrot cake had been cut, she asked me “Can we be a normal family now?” I didn’t have the heart to break hers on this, my wedding day, of all days so I smiled and hugged her, told her ‘What do you mean?! Don’t be silly!’ but the truth is she was right, we were only ever anything but a typical mother and daughter. Chris had two natural daughters and a son of her own and I can understand as a mother now how this added to her confusion about the distances in our relationship.

There was a lot of love there too though, on both sides of the street. Our relationship and time together in this life was layered and complex, but Christine loved me like I was her own and she’s the closest I ever got to a mother of my own. I feel lucky to have known her in all the sweet and unexpected ways that I did and I miss and love her every single day.

christine j. beaudoin (bennett)
march 28, 1952-february 19, 2014

in loving memory of my beloved foster & adopted mother, christine.