Annie Pearl—Kate Gaston
"Goodnight, but also farewell."
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An Alabama native, Kate was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance.
Annie Pearl
I’d walk the trail through the woods to your house just about every day, lured by the promise of three copper pennies to drop into that old candy machine. I’d turn the crank, and the M&Ms would come streaming into my cupped baby hand. When I didn’t get a green one, you’d slip me a fourth penny, making my joy complete. My childhood bears memories of you sweet and heavy as ripe tomatoes on the vine in the garden you used to keep. I’d be there weeding, sweating in the Alabama heat; slapping at fire ants on my leg and counting how many rows ‘til we’d be done. Sometimes, blackberry picking along the fence line, you’d show me how to get at those fat, hidden berries without the thorns tearing at me, but they always did. I’d howl, but you’d just chuckle; you knew the sweetest things can’t be gotten without a little pain. Sitting next to you on the wooden pew where you always sat, “Page 369,” Betty Ann would holler, “first, second, and last!” You’d belt out something all your own, something where alto and tenor joined hands and became one. Shady afternoons we’d sit shelling peas, snapping beans, and shucking corn; food enough for all God’s army. At least there was peach ice cream churning away in the corner. Turning; turning just like us, with the ceaseless pass of time. The last time I saw you, late in the night with your head dropped down in your weary hands— Lord, you were tired then like the end of a hard day. That last time, you didn’t know me, but it was my turn to tuck you into bed; mine to lean down and kiss you goodnight on your soft, wrinkled cheek. Goodnight, but also farewell. You’d already begun your long walk home, the sweet arms of Jesus on your mind. Your only daughter sits on your pew now, weeping for you back here. I can’t help but imagine Bo’s gap-toothed grin when he sees your glorified face. Somewhere your own mama is laughing and pulling you into her arms. You, come home at long last. You, her Annie Pearl.
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This poem has such a vivid atmosphere - it reminds me of a patchwork quilt, expertly sewn together, where each scrap of fabric has years of stories behind it.
This poem struck a beautifully raw chord. I too recently kissed & tucked in my nan as she headed to heaven. I was also diagnosed with cancer a year ago and, as a mother with three young boys, I'm really learning to absolutely treasure all those delightful glimmers of the divine that exist in our every day moments. Thanks for capturing the beauty found in those edge of eternity moments.