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What If , by Stacie Bandle, 2002
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"What
If"
Sitting cross-legged on the livingroom floor of my grandparents'
farmhouse, I winced from pain as my niece "did" my hair.
"When my hair grows back, I want curly hair like Aunt Heather's, but
I want it to be blonde like yours, Aunt Stacie," Meghan chattered
away, talking of her future hair. She had been through so much in the past
year, and never talked in terms of 'what if,' only when. I often wondered
if she ever thought about 'what if.' It was common knowledge amongst the
family that she hadn't asked any questions, and no one was how to approach
it if she did.
"Anything's possible baby, my friend Cheryl went from a blonde to a
redhead when hers grew
back," I answered as she was picking clippies from her old hair
bucket. I had bought most of those clippies for her; doing her hair (and
mine) had always been a favorite baby-sitting activity for us.
Meghan continued brushing, clipping, twisting, and "braiding" my
hair. She ceased talking, concentrating in her silence. I sat, eyes
closed, remembering her soft curly blonde hair, her wide blue eyes, and
her creamy smooth skin. She was so vibrant, even at five years old. Meggie
was the kind of child that magnetized the masses; upon entering a room,
she could silently draw the attention of each and every person there. She
was a true personality, born to the stage. You could set her down in a
room of strangers, and then sit back and watch her work the room. She
would move through the room tossing those blonde curls from side to side,
testing the crowd, tweaking her delivery; she was truly amazing. It was
almost as if seeing a sullen face actually hurt her, she would pull out
all the stops to make someone smile. And now, she sat painfully struggling
through the hurt of every movement, smiling.
"Oww! Meggie, that one was a little tight!"
"Here-look!" She handed me a mirror and demanded my opinion.
"Oh, baby, it's so pretty! And so many colorful clippies, I love
it!" As I looked at the results of her creativity in the mirror, I
glanced over my shoulder at her reflection too. I studied the image of her
small face juxtaposed against her swollen bald head. Her eyes were so
tired and gray, that gray continued into her flaky and brittle skin. Yet
through this mask of illness, Meghan still shined-sweet, stunning,
beautiful.
"Aunt Stacie, when you die, do you get to see Jesus right away?"
"Yes, baby," I spoke with no pause, no break, no beat,
"Jesus will hold your hand and you will know it's time. You will see
Him right away." The words flowed from within, I spoke without
thought. I didn't question the correctness, the theology, or the
implications of my choice of words, because there was no choosing.
"OK."
And that was it, she went back to her creation atop my head; she needed no
more. Stacie
Brandle EIWP July 2002
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