When we were kids, Celia was the one who made the birthday cakes. The first photo I remember seeing of her practicing her craft dates back to about 1968. It’s a grainy color image. Celia’s hair was cute, cut in a short 60’s bob and her shirt was sleeveless because it was already hot in the Mississippi Delta in April. She was sitting at the kitchen table, deftly smoothing icing on the cake. Baby Bill (whose birthday it was) watched her raptly as she turned butter and sugar into magic.
When Celia grew up and built her own house, she was sure to include a baker’s pantry. Behind the louvered doors, you would find a large assortment of Wilton cake pans: square ones, round ones, pans shaped like Big Bird, Elmo, and Dora the Explorer. There were icing tips, and canvas and paper icing bags, smooth spatulas, and knives. My favorite part of the process was her icing colors. Celia could make any hue you could imagine by adding a toothpick scoop of special food coloring to a bowl of white icing.
I watched her many times, as skillful as a surgeon, applying the crumb coating and watched as it dried into a flawless, white shell. Then the real fun began. Celia began to decorate. She could even make a cake look like a basket, interweaving icing instead of wicker. In that basket, she placed marzipan fruit that looked like it was fresh off a tree. Or she made icing flowers, sweet peas, and chrysanthemums that bloomed from the top like a sugared garden.
When Johnny Jackson and I wed, Celia made our cake. I wasn’t surprised when she offered to do it. I honestly just assumed she would because she was our family’s baker. And I have to admit I didn’t really notice it at first. Because of the stress of the wedding, I spent the day in a kind of haze.
Little brother Bill pulled me aside and said, “I want you to see something.” He led me inside the cabin and stood me in front of the cake table. There stood the beautiful cake. Bill said, “I want you to fully focus on how amazing this cake is. I want you to stop for just a second and look at it. Someday you’re going to want to remember this.” I stopped and paid attention to the icing, white and smooth as snow, the vines of blue sweet peas that twined all around. Some of the flowers were so fragile I could see the light shining through them.
I’ve known death before – the creeping kind that robs loved ones of independence and eventually breath. I’ve sat for hours in a hospital room, holding a fading hand and saying goodbye. Much of my private grieving occurred during walks in the woods, contemplating the world without that loved one, adjusting slowly to the shift. And when death came, there was always a gathering of family to sing our loved one homeward.
But on Saturday morning, in the twinkling of an eye, Celia left us. There was no warning. She went peacefully in her sleep. When I was told about her being gone, I couldn’t even understand what was being said. My brain simply couldn’t process the information. Finally, after a few days of stubborn denial, I was able to understand that my sister Celia had died.
She had health issues like anybody else, but nothing that would give you a clue, nothing that would make you say goodbye when you left her. The evening before, I’d seen her out working in the yard with her family, enjoying the spring weather. I honked the horn as I wheeled by, never imagining that I wouldn’t see her again.
If you didn’t know Celia, I should tell you about her. She was a bighearted spirit, generous to everyone, most of all with her love. She poured her love into her family, selflessly and sacrificially to make sure we were all safe and happy. Celia was easy to take for granted because she was always there. She always knew what you needed without having to ask. And when you’re like that, people take you for granted. I know I did.
The day after she died, we drove over to her house. When a person has a long time to die, often their home is halfway packed in preparation for their final journey. But when I went to Celia’s home, I found that she was still there, in the half-sewn mask casually laid aside to be finished later, in the strategically placed post-it notes scattered everywhere. The hardest thing to see was her shoes, right by her chair where she’d left them the night before. She was always particular about her shoes and kept them “as clean as new.” Even though she was gone, those spotless shoes stood ready for her to put them on in the morning and get about the business of helping other people.
I saw her the day before she died. Mama and I visited with her at home. Had I known, I would have paid attention to every detail of her precious self: her smile, her laugh, and the love shining in her eyes. I would have stopped and memorized every detail, just as I had done with her beautiful cake on our wedding day.