(This is a story extension of the book Chicken Sunday by Patricia Polacco)
The room smelled of spicy candle light and warm wood. A hushed silence made me feel relaxed. The priest spoke of prayers of forgiveness, protection, and love and I bowed my head at his words. I wasn't a baptist like my neighbours Stewart, Winston or their grandmother, Miss Eula, but I considered them as my own, so I always went with them. However today, I listened to every prayer said in the church and prayed with them. Today was the anniversary of my babushka’s death and I hoped that all was well for her in Heaven.
After a final ‘Amen’, we stood up and walked out of the church. The air was cool and sweet as it blew through my hair. I hugged myself against the cold and Miss Eula admonished me for wearing so little. “My girl, you will be as frozen as a popsicle if we don't hurry you home!” she exclaimed. When I parted with Stewart and Winston, they each gave me a hug. “Don’t worry,” Stewart told me, “she’s in a happy place now.” I smiled back at him and entered my house.
My mother sat in the kitchen peeling an apple when I walked in. The kitchen was missing the delicious aroma of the chicken soup my babushka would always make for me. It was missing the warmth and livelihood of the different spices she would use. It was missing the smell of home. I remembered her bringing the bowl of chicken soup to me on the cold frosty days like today. She would set it on the table and remind me to be careful of the heat. She scolded me when I ran to her if I burnt my tongue; she would then give me a nice cup of lemonade.
After lunch, there was a soft but firm knock on the door. My mother opened it and I rushed down of the sound of Miss Eula’s voice. “We know this is a hard time for both of you so we decided to keep you company,” she explained to my mother. Stewart and Winston gave me big smiles and waves as my mother invited them inside. Though I enjoyed the company of our neighbours, I missed the funny stories my babushka would tell me before I went to sleep, and the ways she’d comfort me. I started to tear up at her absence. Winston and Stewart were quiet as a mouse because they didn't know what to do about my sudden breakdown. Miss Eula smiled at me and marched into the kitchen while rolling up her sleeves. My mother sat down next to me on the couch and gave me tissues to wipe my eyes.
Clang! Thunk! Bang! The kitchen was making all sorts of sounds and noises as Miss Eula began to prepare … chicken? She was fumbling around for ingredients and soon enough, my nose picked up on a wave of delight. My stomach grumbled and 40 minutes later, she came out holding a big plate of fried chicken! Gravy was poured on top and there was a mixture of spices I never knew we even had. "I know this isn't the chicken soup that your babushka made for you, but I couldn't find the broth!” she frowned for a second. “This is an old traditional meal that my grandparents used to make for me as a child,” she smiled. I looked upon the golden feast and smiled back at her. It smelled of heavenly warmth and nature’s wonders. It smelled like home.
The following Sunday, we hurried home after church. The air was filled with a frosty flurry of snow! Though each flake held its own tiny miracle and blanketed the road with its beauty, it was cold. We weren’t prepared for the first snowfall of the year. Stewart whooped and jumped in a pile of fresh snow and Winston was right on his heel. However, Miss Eula scowled at the boys and pulled them out. They didn’t have enough sweaters on and their pants were already frozen over. She told us to come home for dinner before donning our coats to play in the snow.
Stewart, Winston and I jumped inside the warmth of Miss Eula’s home. Shaking off the bits of white that clung to our bodies, we made our way into the kitchen. The winter wonderland beckoned us to run outside and make snow angels, but we were starving. We sat in front of Miss Eula’s T.V. while she went to prepare our dinner. When we were called to sit and say our prayers Winston frowned. “You’re not making chicken again this Sunday?” he whined. Miss Eula blinked. “You kids want to eat my chicken again?” We looked at each other and grinned. “Of course we do!” I smiled at her. “We want the chicken every Sunday after church!” Miss Eula scratched her white little head and considered it for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” she told us and went back into the kitchen to meet our requests.
Our dinner time was prolonged but no one complained. With our lovely meal, my nose picked up on the ghost of my babushka’s soup and her smile on my lips. I knew at this moment, she was with me. Miss Eula would never replace her, no, people cannot be replaced. Instead, Miss Eula and her two boys would live in another place in my heart, a place that was meant for them.
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