Cinnamon Sugar

Winter 2017

Hope was crying so hard I could not understand what she was trying to tell me. Once I did understand my daughter’s words, in shock, I dropped into the nearest chair and began to weep. After a long battle with ulcerative colitis, Hope’s sweet friend, 17-year-old Kennedy Hogue, had died unexpectedly that morning, New Year’s Day 2017. Hope had just received the tragic news from Katelyn Hogue, Kennedy’s older sister and Hope’s best friend from high school. Hope yearned to come home and spend time with Katelyn, to be by her side as she coped with this unbelievable loss. She felt her employer would be understanding, but Hope still had to coordinate all the details before she could leave town. I hung up the phone while snapshots of happy times with Katelyn and Hope filled my thoughts. How many times had they gathered around our kitchen island, making strawberry cake pops for school events? I remembered the day Hope had her bridal portraits made. Early that morning, Katelyn brought fancy coffee to the salon. Our family friend, Kathryn, was Hope’s hair and makeup artist. The three girls chatted easily, reminiscing and anticipating a fun day ahead as Kathryn worked her magic. We oohed and awed while she added her final touch, the perfect shade of deep coral lipstick. Then we gathered around a radiant Hope, smiling and laughing into the mirror for a group selfie. All day long, Katelyn helped Hope in and out of the car, ensuring her beautiful wedding gown was not damaged in the process. At the wedding, Katelyn had stood as Hope’s maid of honor, tall and gorgeous, supportive and smiling. Those were all such happy memories. But Katelyn’s youngest sister had just died. This was not going to be a happy time.

Two days later, Hope, and her husband, Matt, drove home to Little Rock from Austin, Texas. As they crossed the threshold of her childhood home, Hope fell into our waiting arms. Her husband, father and I stood in the foyer, holding her until her sobs subsided. Hope needed us and we longed to comfort her.

Hope loves the Hogue family dearly. Throughout her high school years, the Hogues were part of her extended family- her home away from home. Her heart was breaking as she tried to grasp the reality of their loss. With Kennedy’s death, Mr. Mike and Ms. Traci had lost their youngest daughter. Katelyn and Caroline had lost their beloved little sister. Their beautiful family of five had now sorrowfully become a family of four. Even with the Hogue family’s strong faith, how would they go on? Nothing would ever be the same. Hope was also suffering with her own loss. She felt she had lost a little sister too.

After Kennedy’s funeral, Matt returned to Austin for work. Hope spent a few extra days with us in Little Rock. She visited often with Mike, Traci, Katelyn and Caroline. One afternoon, Hope joined me in my bedroom. She sat atop my quilted, matelassé bedspread as I sat in my gliding rocker beside her. As we talked, the western sunlight pouring through my bedroom window shone brightly on my beautiful 23-year-old daughter. Her glossy brunette hair framed her petite face and her dark brown eyes glistened in contrast to her pale skin. We talked of Hope’s friendship with Katelyn and her extended family. Hope recounted numerous happy stories that included Katelyn’s siblings, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I was filled with gratitude for this family that had loved my daughter so well. Hope sat hugging a pillow, her laughter mingled with tears as she related many sweet memories of Kennedy. She laughed as she told stories of shared milkshakes and fun times watching The Bachelorette. Her tears fell as she remembered her last time together with Kennedy. It was last autumn, when she, Ms. Traci and Kennedy sat talking around their kitchen table, enjoying one another’s company, before Katelyn returned home from work. An ordinary moment in time became a special memory for Hope.

As the sun fell behind the trees outside my window, I laughed and cried with Hope. Her love for Kennedy and the Hogue family ran deep. The pain and loss she felt was genuine. I chose not to minimize her love for the Hogues by trying to rush her through the grief she was feeling. I listened. I let her know how much she was loved and cared for. And I prayed for her comfort.

As we spoke of grief, our thoughts turned to another significant time of loss for both of us when my father, whom we all called Pa, died in 2003. We shared memories of our once strong and capable Pa, intermingled with recollections of his rapid decline. Hope reminded me of the only time she saw her grandfather in the hospital. Sadly, it was the last time she would see him. This was yet another story of grief and loss. A tender and poignant story of a young girl and her Pa. Her story. Did she know her story was a gift I would cherish always? As Hope left the room, I sat in the fading light. I looked out my window at the pine trees beyond and thought of my dad.

And another window.

I knew I would write her story- for myself, for Hope, and for Kennedy.

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Summer 2003

The scorching July sun turned the parking lot in front of the Oklahoma Heart Hospital into a brutal furnace of black asphalt with heat waves rising from its ugly dark surface. Exiting my blue Toyota van, the heat immediately assaulted my face and arms. Weary of the asphalt, concrete and constant summer heat, I crossly thought to myself, “Pay attention to where you are parked, Kimberly.” My almost daily visits to see my Dad had been going on for over a month, and each time, I was forced to park my car in a different area of the crowded lot. I made a mental note of where I was parked. Today was already fraught with enough stress, without stomping around this searing parking lot later in the day. Shielding my eyes in the glaring light, now a habit, I located the third floor window, just right of center. The sun’s unfriendly rays shone intensely against the hospital window, the rectangular pane an evil eye, glaring back at me. I knew my Dad was lying there, just on the other side of that window. I had watched my larger-than-life father shrink before my very eyes. His strong muscles had deteriorated as his labored breathing had increased. He had developed a very rare side effect from a medicine prescribed to steady his irregular heartbeat. Instead, the medicine was destroying his lungs. The doctors were administering an experimental drug to help reverse the fatal course of this reaction, but had little hope of his survival.

My fearful thoughts were even more anxious than usual as I passed through the hospital’s lobby doors. On that day, Richard, my husband, was bringing our youngest daughter, Hope, to see her Pa. They were making the seven hour drive from Little Rock to Oklahoma City. We told Hope how sick her Pa was, but can a 10-year-old really know what to expect? Once inside the lobby, I was struck by how quickly the air-conditioned air cooled my burning skin and wished it could do the same for the emotions boiling in my soul. I whispered a prayer for my dad and for Hope, his youngest grandchild.

That afternoon, my troubled thoughts vacillated between apprehension and eagerness as I waited for Richard and Hope to arrive. When they knocked softly on Dad’s door, I met them there and gave Hope a big hug. Moving into Richard’s arms, I immediately felt strengthened by his warm embrace. Wanting to be with my Dad as much as possible, it had been days since I had seen them in Little Rock and I missed them both terribly. Endeavoring to reassure Hope, I smiled directly into her dark brown eyes. Those eyes, so like her Pa’s, sought out his bed in the large room. She was trying so hard to be brave, however, I saw her hesitation…

Can this really be Pa lying in this hospital bed, wearing a flimsy gown and a plastic oxygen mask? My Pa is a strong cowboy. He always wears blue jeans and a denim work shirt, sleeves torn by barbed wire, and a can of Skoal in the breast pocket. He can lift bales of hay, mend fence and ride his horse for miles.

This was nothing like her visits to Pa and Grandma’s house in Shidler. She loved the first sight of their big rock house on the hill. She always looked forward to bright summer mornings, when she and Pa would head out to feed the cows. They would “load up” into the white Ford pickup truck that was always shrouded in dust, its seats and floorboards littered with chains, ropes and red oily rags. On the truck dashboard, huge hypodermic syringes for the animals rattled against the windshield as they drove along the gravel and dirt roads. Crumpled yellow gas receipts, signed in his elegant and firmly printed hand signature, BC Jackson, hopped across the dashboard like popcorn. Windows rolled down, with the wind whipping through her long brunette hair, they would drive down dusty roads for miles, from pasture to pasture to feed Pa’s cattle. As soon as the cattle saw Pa’s truck coming, they knew it was meal time. Pa would honk the horn and shout loudly through the window, “Ssssooooo, cows!” and the cows would come running. Her delight was helping Pa push the button that magically dispensed the feed pellets for the bawling cattle crowding around the back of his truck. While a few dozen mama cows and their calves were eating, Hope would hop from the truck into Pa’s strong arms. Pa, grinning from ear to ear, would hold her safely aloft so she could pat a calf.

“Hope, do you want to ride that calf?”

“No Pa, I’m too scared!”

“Oh, you could do it! Maybe next time.”

After the cows were fed, he would deposit her back into the truck’s cab, and off they would go to the next pasture. Smelling of diesel fumes, freshly mown grass, cow manure and sunshine, and with morning chores complete, they would head home to Grandma and lunch. Cowboy hat, boots and flip-flops deposited by the back door, they would head to Pa’s small bathroom to “wash up” with the gritty Lava soap. While eating a grilled cheese sandwich and sweet summer peaches, Hope would tell Grandma about their morning adventures. After lunch, like clockwork, Pa would lean back in his brown leather recliner for his midday nap. Fingers interlaced over his chest, his gentle snores were soon in rhythm with the noon news report droning quietly from the television.

But now Pa looks so frail hooked up to these blinking monitors and wheezing machines. It’s kind of scary. What’s happened to my Pa?

Pa motioned Hope to come close, patting the bed sheets beside him. As she approached his bedside, he took off the oxygen mask long enough to draw her into his arms for a gentle hug. She leaned across his chest and, cheek to cheek, felt the familiar stubble of his scratchy beard. Sweet memories of their laughter and early morning snuggles and their oft repeated words came to her mind:

“Pa, your beard feels like cinnamon sugar.”

“It does, does it? Well, you’re my Sugar.”

“And you’re mine!”

She wished they were back in Pa’s rock home in Shidler, sitting together in his brown leather recliner, and not in some strange hospital room, but yes, this was her own beloved Pa. Laying her head on his shoulder, she heard him whisper,

“I love you, Sugar.”

“I love you too, Pa.”

And although his grasp was weaker and his voice softer, she felt the strength of his love, and rested, safe and cherished in her Pa’s warm embrace one last time.

Photograph by Richard A. Harper, Arkansas, 2018