Loss...

Madoline's bare feet rested on the cool tile of the garden patio. She sat in a low-backed chair from Burundi, with her back to the French doors. She could hear her Grandmother preparing tea in the small garden kitchen. Madoline was not uncomfortable, but she sensed that she might be apprehensive. She did not know why.

Anna was Madoline's grandmother. Anna was 88, and Madoline was 25. Anna had spent almost her entire life in Europe, mostly waiting for Madoline's grandfather. Anna carried the solid silver tea service, a gift from a shiek in Yemen, and set it on the small wooden table in the garden. Anna pulled her chair to the table and began to pour out.

Antoine had been an engineer for the Republic Nationale Institute de Petroleum. He had met Anna shortly after the end of the Second World War. They were both orphaned teenage Jews, lost within their home, without family or friends. They had found each other in a refuge camp run by the Americans. Mostly ignored by the rest of the world, they had found time to eat, sleep, and regain their strength. And fall in love.

Antoine and Anna married, and had two children. Jacques had died when only a small child, supposedly from a fever. But Anna felt that the French doctor, solidly supported on a daily ration of wine and morphine, had mistakenly injected Jacques with morphine instead of peniciline. Anna did not know that this regime of pain and despair would be a constant companion for her until she died.

Michelle was the child that lived. She had a daughter, Madoline. Michelle's husband was an officer in the French Foriegn Legion, and had been killed in Chad fighting the rebels.

For a long time Anna, Michelle and Madoline lived together in a small home near a lake outside of St. Loupin. Antoine was gone, traveling in the Middle East and Africa, searching for oil. On those rare occasions when he was home, there were often grand parties with friends from all over the world, gifts from these same places, and exotic stories that facinated and sometimes terrified Madoline. There were also terrible arguments between Anna and Antoine. Not over money, but love, or at least the abscence of it. Anna missed Antoine. Antoine loved his work.

The telegram arrived on a rainy, misty day in November. It was one of those days that was neither too cold or too warm, and the rain fell at times, and then rested while the mist kept the world at bay. Antoine was dead. There had been an accident, somewhere in Borneo. HIs body could not be recoved. He was gone.

It had taken almost a year for Michelle and Madoline to console Anna. Eventually she had found her feet, and began going about the village. She accepted the kind words of her friends, and the sad looks of the shop keepers as she shopped with Madoline. Eventually, Anna adopted a rather steely demeanor about Antoine's death. She also began speaking of him, almost (but not quite) as if he was merely away again, and when he returned it would be for good.

Madoline noticed that Anna was especially quiet this morning. Her grandmother had become more reserved in the last several months. Madoline was not sure why, but suspected that perhaps her grandmother was growing senile.

Anna and Madoline spoke for some time. Anna never mentioned Antoine during the entire conversation. Until the end.

She spoke for almost an hour. She never stopped. When she finished, Madoline was sobbing. It was clear that Anna was terrible sad, lonely, and something else. Madoline could not put her finger on what it was. She sensed that Anna had reached some decision, some cross-road, and that she was about to do something. But what?

Madoline left Anna sitting in the garden that day, and walked slowly back to the home that she shared with her mother. Madoline almost turned back, almost went and asked Anna what was about to happen. But she did not.

Madoline liked surprises.