The Chandelier

Beckoned from the Edge of Death

It was Winter 1975. I, a girl too young to even be in school, lived in a drafty old house with my family. The house had uncarpeted floors, lumpy linoleum, water stained ceilings and peeling rose printed wallpaper. Although my mother kept our home spotless, even pinesol couldn't cover the smell of oldness and misery that the house held.

One frigid morning, my baby brother and I sat at the breakfast table, over which hung an impressive wrought iron chandelier, so regal and out of place in our meager home.

From my chair, I looked out the back door and saw a lady standing in the yard. She wore only a thin cotton dress with short sleeves and buttons up the front. She wore no coat or gloves on the cold morning. She motioned me to her, holding out her arms inviting embrace.

Even though I didn't know her, I hopped down from my chair and walked toward her smiling face. Before I reached her, I heard a tremendous crash behind me. I spun around to see that the chandelier had fallen, splintering the chair where I had been sitting and even cracking the floorboard and linoleum.

Had I remained in the chair, I would have been killed.

When I turned back to the door, the lady was gone, and I never laid eyes on her again - until years later when, as an adult, I took the picture from Great Aunt Flossie.

"This here was my little sister," she said with pride. "Your grandmama."

I turned the old photograph over and read the words scrawled on the back.

Lillie.

Born 1928.

Died 1964.

Eleven years before she beaconed me from my breakfast chair and certain death.