Memories of that one last trip together

I didn’t realize it was the last time.

Virginia was my children’s great-grandmother, and we had a bond forged by our love of motherhood, storytelling and history. When I lived in Greenville, her house was within walking distance, and I can remember the hot summer walks to her house with children in the stroller.

We would often sit in her den, with the TV blaring in the background, and just share stories. With a master story-teller, every conversation held the promise of an epic adventure, a magical exchange where anything was possible, where even the girl and the white goose in the picture behind the couch might suddenly step down from the frame and into the conversation.

There is no way to know which encounter will be the last one, so we need to cherish every moment with those we love.

I remember what turned out to be the last time we rode in the car together; it was during a Charleston vacation. While the traffic stood still on both sides of the open Wappoo Creek drawbridge on James Island, allowing the boat traffic on the waterway to pass through, our conversation bridged the decades and ran swiftly to the memories of her early marriage.

She showed me a house where she had lived during an earlier chapter of life, and then another memory pushed its way forward — a romantic memory of the time that Otis had, heroically in our view, walked hours and miles home from a distant job site just to see her again. Virginia and I both loved envisioning that occasion from more than 50 years before, a scene that almost emerged from the depths as if it had happened yesterday.

Virginia told wonderful stories that included many characters and places I had never known; they ranged effortlessly across the decades, states and continents, and even included a smattering of news stories, all woven together into something richly textured, often mysterious and always entertaining. The harsher, darker, edgier words like “drugs,” “killed,” and “death” she would whisper, as if to protect the innocence of any young ones who might be listening.

We all had a favorite in Virginia’s archipelago of stories, like the funny Halloween story in which a beautiful, seemingly innocent Shirley Temple-like child visited her one October. In this story, an adorable trick-or-treater of about 5 or 6 years old was so precious that Virginia dropped a special, candied apple into the child’s bag. Much to Virginia’s surprise, the little girl looked up, annoyed, saying, “Well, thanks, but you just broke every piece of my ---- candy.” The contrast between Virginia’s perception of the child and the reality of the girl was humorous to all of us, and the story became a classic in Virginia’s repertoire.

After I moved, Virginia sent to me several pieces of furniture from her home, as if she foresaw the closing of another chapter of her life. There was a grandmother clock, a child’s bedroom set, a picture of two birds. Within months, her declining health forced her move to a health-care facility, where she died. I never had the chance to say good-bye.

When I see these items in my home today, I think of a favorite story-teller and friend, and memories of the conversations we shared rise to the surface, bridging the years that have passed since that day we sat on the Wappoo Bridge, watching the ships pass by.

This story was originally published September 4, 2016 at 6:00 PM with the headline "Memories of that one last trip together."