Live Like You Were Dying by Michael Morris Page B

medicine, and my soul lapped up every drop.
    But not everything had stayed the same in that little country church that sat next to the highway. The pastor was now a man younger than me. His baritone voice bounced from the plastered walls until not even a child murmured. With each point he wanted to emphasize, he’d run his fingers through his spiky hair and say, “You aren’t hearing me, now, are you?”
    After the service the pastor greeted us at the door and engulfed Grand Vestal in his arms. She seemed to savor his affection the same way I had savored the hymns about sweet reunions in the sky.
    Walking past the cars that lined the gravel parking lot, she lingered to visit with even more people. “Daddy, was Grand Vestal ever mayor of the town or something?” Malley whispered.
    â€œOnly in her mind . . . but come to think of it, she’d make a fine one.”
    When I started to drive away, I asked Grand Vestal what had become of that pastor, the one with an eye patch who brought his cockatoo up to the pulpit.
    Fishing through her wicker pocketbook in the backseat of our car, Grand Vestal never looked up. “Oh, him . . . we had to get shut of him, the preacher and that bird both. I tell you, the final straw was Wednesday-night prayer meeting. Racine Taylor was making announcements about visitation, and out of the clear blue, that bird went to screeching and carrying on. You never did hear such a racket. It was just like the very sound of Racine’s voice was getting on that bird’s nerves. You know, she always did talk through her nose. Well, sir . . . the next thing you know, that bird flew out and plucked Racine’s wig right off the top of her head. I mean to tell you, the preacher had a time calming them down . . . Racine and that bird both. They tell me that to this day she still can’t walk underneath a tree without getting the nervous shakes.”
    We laughed and carried on the entire drive back to Grand Vestal’s house. I saw my father’s truck when we pulled up the long drive, and his outline was visible through the screen porch. His thin frame and slanted shoulders were topped off by the John Deere cap he had worn so long that the logo was only partially readable. “Judging from the looks of it, somebody had a good time,” he called out.
    â€œSee what you missed, Ronnie Bishop. I declare, the day I get you to church will be the day I’m satisfied the Lord will call me home. My work will finally be done,” Grand Vestal said.
    â€œNow, see, that’s how come I don’t go. I’m working on keeping you around as long as I can help it.”
    Grand Vestal swatted him on the back with a folded church bulletin. Malley moved forward and once again became the prim and proper girl from Atlanta whose party manners were paid for in full. My father looked awkward as he first reached for Malley’s shoulder and then settled for tussling her hair.
    Men might have spoken softer, but I’d never met one who spoke fewer words than my father. The way he’d shift his weight on his feet and fold his arms always made me think that he was never really comfortable in anybody’s presence, except my mother’s. This homecoming would be no different.
    â€œYou’re gettin’ so big,” he said. “Ain’t she, Grand Vestal?” My grandmother agreed. “And so pretty. Ain’t she pretty, Grand Vestal?” My grandmother agreed again, playing with Malley’s hair.
    Looking up at him through the screen door framed in cobwebs, his grainy image seemed out of focus. I stood on the concrete step as long as I could, watching him shift his weight as he listened to Malley answer one strained question after another.
    Now a man of sixty, he wore gold-rimmed glasses. His ruddy and thick-skinned nose seemed better suited for a man ten years older. A farmer and retired mechanic from the Office of Public Works, he continued to