In Your Own Time
The passing of Martha Lawrence was no particular surprise to the townspeople. It was a well known fact that Ms. Lawrence had been battling, quite fiercely, a cancer that had plagued both lungs for some time though it wasn’t until the malady had spread to her bones, a crippling pain that, in the end, left her bed-ridden and unable to move, did she finally succumb. In her spryness of which she was roundly known for Martha could be seen, day after day, sitting at the porch of her humble, one-story home greeting people, raising her coffee to their direction with a smile and a wink. She was a good woman and well-liked. “Find a fallacy in this woman,” some would say, “and I will show you the doors of Atlantis.”
In the months leading up to her passing Martha Lawrence carried out few tasks, most of which could be described as simply “tying up loose ends”. However, one such errand the folks of the city took to recognizing was that which occurred in a town hall meeting on a cold night in December. Martha took to the podium, hobbled and with a cane in one hand, her daughter, Liddy, at her other arm. She unfolded a small sheet of paper and spoke into the microphone. Her voice was soft but the people would listen to what she had to say.
“I have been of this town all my life. I have seen people come and I have seen people go. I have watched your troubles and you have watched mine. Though we, as a town, may have had our share of missteps I will say that I have no greater a love for this place than anything else. You are a part of me and, I would hope, I am a part of you. I will miss this place but, surely, I know, you will miss me all the more.”
As she finished the last line, as the quiet laughs regarding her bit of humor died down, Martha Lawrence was led to the side of the stage and out through the side exit and back to her home. Fourteen days later she would leave this place though, if you were in the crowd of people that night watching as she addressed the townspeople, you would have guess she could live forever.
Her body was submitted to the Glen Evans Mortuary on Christmas morning. The next day there would be an open-viewing for people to come and, if they wished to, pay their respects to the woman. A peculiar thing happened that day, a thing that Martha would never come to know. As the day progressed and the sun rose and fell her casket would be filled with envelopes, letters of the townspeople, to be committed with Martha Lawrence to her final resting place.
Some letters would be of love and adoration for the woman, others would be of sadness - sadness to see her go, sadness for the feeling her absence from the town would be. Then there would be letters of questions, not of Martha Lawrence, but of matters of life, of longing, of what is and what is not. Friends and strangers alike would offer their words, whether they be queries or concerns, regrets or loathing; her casket, as the people of the town saw it, would serve as a vessel to whatever is to come – a means of hope for answers to the questions we share in our bones.