Sympathy is something of which I’ve never had much understanding. Neither the hardship that warrants it, at least in the sense there might come a time in life when one acknowledges regret for whatever work her hands are obliged to do. Mother never gave me the idea there was any other choice but to own my lot and work it with the strength and sense God gave me. And she certainly never implied I might be thanked, lauded, or pitied for whatever work I might do. If we broke it, we fixed it. If we baked it, we ate it. If we buttered it, we laid in it. And if we filled the house, then by God, we kept it like an angel in the Lord’s mansion.

When Jake was born, I didn’t whine for lack of sleep. When Patience was born, I didn’t lament a lost figure. When Annie was born, I didn’t pine for vanquished youth. With Nanna, I didn’t protest my station, and with Gracie, I didn’t “What-If.” Even when Abe was gone and there was free license to question the Universe, I didn’t, because Mother taught me such self-pity betrayed my God-given intelligence and was an utter waste of time, energy, and potential.

It’s hard to say I survived. Naturally, losing Abe was an agony unimaginable and unparalleled, but a person isn’t proud of herself for breathing. We just breathe because we can’t not breathe. And we just keep going because we can’t willfully, spontaneously die. Certainly, it took a long time to claw my way out from the belly of Abe’s crypt, and I did leave a pound or two of flesh and heart behind me in the clammy soil. But I never doubted I’d stand on solid ground again; somebody had to pull the kids out.

So when Aunt Georgia continues to gaze on me with that pained heartbreak at the corners of her brows, I’m not exactly able to absorb her warmth as I’m sure she intends. And when a gentle hand trembling with sincerity is placed on my shoulder after the umpteenth retelling of the story of Abe’s passing, I am never quite able to equally return the embrace.

I lower my eyes, because it’s humble and polite; I tilt my head because it’s comely and genteele; and I offer my thanks in a whisper, because that is what everyone does when they’re speaking of death. Everyone but Mother and I.