Sunset in Rodney Bay

Amid the stories and the memories and the laughter, a quiet reckoning, as starched embroidered linens are divided among daughters and granddaughters, photo albums packed for safekeeping in another country, the house so full now, so vibrantly alive, the emptiness and the silence imminent. Her grandson says, Look up at me Grandma, not at your feet, as he holds her up and walks backward with careful steps, guiding her to her favorite chair. One granddaughter plumps the pillows under her head come evening, another lies head to head with her and says, Look at us, how alike we are. Stella makes johnny cakes and sweet plantain that barely make it out the pan before they are snatched by waiting fingers, and the banana bread, fresh from the oven at four, does not last past sunset, the beach stoked appetites enormous. My son finds me in a room where I am reading and he curls his head into my shoulder. He is crying. Grandma is so tiny and frail, her voice mostly a whisper, her eyes cloudier than before, her hands trembling. I stroke his head and tell him that he can always be comforted by the fact that he has looked out for her always, been there for her even when he was a very small boy. On Saturday she will leave St. Lucia, maybe for the last time. She tells me where her will is, the contents of the safety deposit box, gives instructions for dividing the crystal. She makes us promise we will take care of Stella who has taken such good care of her. She watches Olympic gymnastics with us, and swimming, remembering when she and my father lived in London, where my dad studied law six decades ago. She tells us stories. She shows us pictures. She looks around the room at the sprawled bodies of her offspring and his, and she smiles an almost secret smile. This is what she loves best. It has always been so.