Magpie Tales 2 for Feb 23 Matchbox (click here to link)

Angelina poured the golden sherry into her grandmother’s crystal snifter. Although she’d inherited the crystal when her mother passed on, Angelina still thought of it as still her grandmothers. When does a possession become our own she mused? How can it ever be just ours when it is accompanied by ancestral lineage and grand memories of its use by family long gone? Aaahh and what happens when that lineage reaches the end of the line? Hmm, I suppose then it truly becomes a possession of someone else. Grandfather always said, “Enjoy it now, there are no pockets in a shroud.” Will they call it the “old crystal acquired at an auction?” Will they wonder about its history? She smiled savoring the golden liquid, swirling it first clockwise and then counter clockwise, pondering her reverie.



Angelina, at 87 years of age, celebrated her blessings each evening in a ritual of sherry and candlelight. Who knew how much longer it would be until she would join “her People” who had made their transition to the other side. She was blessed with good health and enough money to live comfortably. Daily she walked four blocks to mass, slower this past year but still without need for any cane or appliance. When and if that day came, she was ready; she had her grandfather’s cane in the umbrella stand. Daily mass was another Angelina ritual that ensured that people would know she was alive; if Father did not see her in her pew, he would be curious and someone from the church would check on her.


If Angelina was anything, it was ready, prepared. She’d drawn her will and made all burial arrangements years ago. She’d spent a lifetime living well, enjoying and traveling. Her home was filled with memories but she never mourned the past. She’d buried her parents, sisters, three husbands, two daughters, aunts, uncles, cousins. She’d outlived all her long time friends. However on this back side of her life, she could still smile and not slip into maudlin regret. She enjoyed her evening sherry toasting the end of another day. Angelina sipped the sherry thinking “Well done Old Soul” and hummed ...” Life is a Cabaret old friend, come to the Cabaret!”


That song reminded Angelina of her Grandfather whose spirit had been so strongly with her today; she’d said a special prayer for his soul at mass. He’d migrated from Austria, arrived at Ellis Island penniless and made his fortune hauling iron ore on the Great lakes. He was the son of a single mother before that was socially acceptable; he’d laughed about the scandalous “illegitimus” notation on his baptismal certificate. When Angelina cried as a child over her father’s death, Grandfather consoled her with stories about how he’d gone ahead and that now she had a special angel watching. Grandfather always said her father would wave at her when the time was right for her to join him. He’d tell her he had no father on earth either but reminded her that God was everyone’s father. She matured nurtured by his wisdom that life is for the living and can be good, life can be outstanding, your choice, what makes you stronger is going on. She had learned from her Grandfather that while one cannot always control what happens in life one very well can control one’s reactions to happenings. She’d never forgotten that. Her strength in living had always kept her going on.


The box of matches she retrieved to light the evening candle reminded her of her trips to Europe. She’d never found any more information about her grandfather’s family; the old church was bombed in World War II destroying all records. No surviving long lost relatives were found. But she had visited her grandmother’s home village in Germany. These matches from her last grand European trek were 15 years old, but they still lit. They symbolized an unhealthy habit. Angelina had never smoked; she’d tried it but could not abide the dirt and the odor, found it repulsive, a useless indulgence. She recalled a time when smokers were not ostracized and matches were complimentary! That was back when tobacco was advertised with glamour and sex and virility like the Marlborough Man. How sinister. Pathetic addicts in its control ended with wrinkles around their mouths like a cats’ ass, bad breath, coughs and even worse cancers. But the Europeans, oh they were smokers. She wondered if they still gave complimentary matches today over there. She’d ask Georgina about that the next time they talked.


She lit the candle and sipped her sherry, ummm smooth satisfying. Relaxing in her chair, ready to read for the evening, Angelina closed her eyes for a second and caught a vision, of her father waving at her, beside him her grandfather waving too and there alongside all her People! Across the river of golden flowing waters that looked like sherry, they were all waving, singing “come to the Cabaret Angelina, come to the Cabaret.” She waded across the shallows and up the bank.


The next day at mass Father Mizuski noticed Angelina was not in her pew. After mass he called her home but no one answered the phone. So the priest came to her house and rang the door bell but no one answered. Opening the door with the key Angelina had given the church, the quiet greeted him. . Inside he found Angelina’s body slouched in her chair, open book in her lap, peacefully smiling, box of matches and an empty sherry glass on the table next to her and the candle still burning. Angelina had gone on to join her People.

If you click on the title you should be able to see  the link to other writers in the Magpie blog; this is week 2 for our attempts to build a tale on what Willow posts...