The Death of Helcha

Tumors grew from her head near the end of her life. Her brain riddled with poison. One late night she ran screaming naked through the streets, a woman driven mad with cancer. I was a teenager in high school living on the Space Coast when she died. She had survived breast cancer after a double mastectomy, a cruel punishment for a woman. She had been a worker at a factory where toxins floated all around them. By the sound of talk at tables, everyone was dying of cancer from central Massachusetts. It had been that way since I can remember. 

One of my favorite memories of my Grandmother was Easter and the blessing of food at Holy Cross. She attended mass every Sunday with her scarf always covering her hair. On Easter we would take a plate with a piece of each: pierogi, kapusta, kielbasa, raisin bread, ham, horseradish, and pickles, to be blessed. It was a plate for the not forgotten to be blessed in the basement. All the Polish ladies would enter the backdoor of the church, going down a few wooden steps, carrying that which they had prepared for the holiest of all the feasts. All the plates would be scattered on a long table. The priest would say his magic words called a prayer as he shook the golden orb of holy water, which he had made holy through his magic words. Later when we were home the food that had been blessed was set on the table to symbolize the waiting for the second coming, like someone was going to walk through the door, a sacrifice of food not for us to eat. I always stole the raisin bread from the plate.

Many of you have seen me fight with her raisin bread recipe, maybe it's my punishment. I keep working on it though; I never give up on something I love.

A Polar strawberry soda in one hand and an ice cream sandwich in the other, my knees always bloodied and scraped from play, I would sit and watch her. She taught me how to make tomato gravy/spaghetti sauce. I hear it's a favorite dish I make for my friends. A memory here, a thought of this, that, and a pinch of faith I know what I am doing. When I'm done, I've completed my magic just as she taught me. Served to you on a table or from pot it matters not. You bless the food I made with your happiness when you eat it;)

Helcha is old school Polish for Helen. I carry very fond memories of her and by telling you this short story she will be remembered.  

Every Easter I resurrect her through the food I prepare, in celebration.

When she died I was sad but I was ok with it; everything has its time. She taught me faith in the future and  a bit of magic.

Be still and listen

One day I'll tell you a story

Easter is the remembrance of the resurrection of Christ, the Holy Spirit by word of prophecy. At a moment when they thought all things were lost their was faith was restored.