A Bow For Reine

A Bow for Reine

By

Charrma Thomas

It's raining. My sister always relished the soft pitter patter of rain, Nima believed its rhythmic flow was the lyrics to nature’s music. As children we rejoiced in the drum beat of a steady downpour- basking in the cool air, and the dynamic wind. As we embraced the all knowing sky that beckoned raised chins and closed eyes- we soaked in life's infinite possibilities. Today, as I glance upon my sister Nima- wearily pregnant- swaying to and fro like a wavering buoy, plump with burgeoning expectation- I am reminded of the precocious little girl imploring mother creation to dance.

As I take hold of my overstuffed designer bag circling the busy luggage carousel, I ready myself for her questions, and brace for judgment cloaked in familial concern. No longer able to evade Nima’s urgent calls, or eschew our grandmother’s ardent requests to repair old wounds, I reluctantly booked my flight. Eight months had come and gone. In that time, I replaced our decadent sisterly chats, daydreams and musings, with deafening silence. I, in New York, amid the bustling city streets, besting the business world- and she- exploring academia beside the seaside shores of California, life percolating inside her.

The moment Nima welcomes me curbside- I taste the first hint of moisture on my sun starved lips, another then another. Awash in a wave of nostalgia as Nima and I reunite, I am forced to heed the fervent earthly melodies I have long quieted from our childhood.

I can finally introduce my precious little dew drop to my big sister. Hope, my hand firmly in hers- as she presses it against her flourishing abdomen, “Meet our legacy, baby Reine.”

Reine, I repeat- smiling assuredly, “How fitting.” We speak of the nursery, teething, christenings, and college tuition, as we round our familiar corner- delivering us home. Left solemnly unsaid is a plethora of apologies, regrets and walled off hurt poised precariously close with the hope of soliciting an invite into our polite conversation. At the door greeting us instead, standing tall with her petite diminutive frame, my towering grandmother watching on.

The words are crisp, clear and just above a gentle whisper from the woman who raised my sister and I announcing, “My, how you’ve been missed, my dear. Welcome home.” Streamers, party favors, a decorative cake, and a bounty of intricately wrapped pastel boxes with ornate festive bows tied in taut streamlined knots to perfection all stacked up, one on top of the other- that consume the room, yet my eyes feast solely on a singular focal point- my grandmother. Her mouth purrs, her eyes twinkle, but her heart roars thunderously as it palpitates inside her dainty chest full of protest, while she critically presides over my lengthy absence, in stillness. “The baby shower today will be perfect, just like the decor.” I managed to reply. And for a great while, it was.

Licking the rich canary colored buttercream frosting from my well manicured fingers I take note of the high spirited room filled with upbeat well wishers, arriving one by one festively engaging in playful games, silly small talk, and gift giving. As Nima gingerly tugs upon the pristine bow perched ever so becomingly upon baby Reine’s present, the corners of Nima’s upturned lips align as she recalls a coveted memory. Looking me squarely in the eye, Nima reveals, “This one would have been my favorite.”

You see, everyday before school I brushed my sister's hair, patiently combing through the tangles for minutes at a time until her gorgeously coiled tresses felt smooth. Meticulous concentration was required as my nine year old fingers navigated my comb- parting her long hair evenly, so that each side maintained just the right amount of curls. Then, I would gather her voluminous locks in a sturdy ponytail and ensure it was not too tight, yet snug enough to hold her impressive mane before braiding intricately. And, if we were lucky and I mean truly fortunate, l found a bow. A bow without loose strings unraveling the ends, one that was bright and strong yet feminine enough to make my little sister feel she truly shone- glorious.

Our grandmother beheld in rapture as Nima stood- recounting the care I took in taking care of her, and in that moment- bursting with pride and a true sense of purpose, I understood the real reason why I was here. Or so I humbly thought.

As our lively celebration came to an eventual close, Sadie's harrowing pangs of motherhood soon began with each contraction more vehement than the last. I resolved to buckle Nima up three weeks premature, with only a pillow and an overnight bag, as I dashed her to the hospital. With every speed bump, traffic light, and portion of rough terrain, Nima’s coloring faded. Instead of crying out in pain, giving voice to her climatic feeling, Nima’s expression began to dim. With pulsating adrenaline vibrantly coursing through my veins, enabling me to maneuver our vehicle adroitly through the downtown city streets, into a parking stall, and finally to my only sister's hospital bed, I was rewarded with more time.

Revived with an infusion of oxygen, fluids, and a team of hardworking doctors, Nima rallied. Then Nima pushed, and pushed, until a beautiful baby girl cried out triumphantly ushering new life into our hearts just as Nima intended. And Nima did all this with a bright pink bow from the baby shower tied perfectly around her cherubic ring finger. And that's the story I came to tell to Reine- every year on her birthday when she inevitably asks how she came into this world just as her mother left.

Before Reine could don her deliciously pink bow, the two of us would have to begin our slow, deliberate journey towards healing. That trip began on the drive from the hospital- delivering us home to an empty spot Nima used to fill. As I parked in the driveway, questioning the weight and purpose hoisted upon my life- I looked up and in the door greeting me- was my diminutive grandmother, standing tall. Through her pursed lips, and swollen eyes, I knew she would push through her pain to help alleviate mine. I cried all day on her shoulder so Reine could cry all night, on mine.

I know that one day when the moment is right, I will tell Reine about her mother’s heart. And even though no doctor she sought, questioned, or implored recommended she give birth, Nima was defiant, bright and strong, determined to meet the last gift bestowed upon her- from her late husband. While I wish I did not turn back out of anger and frustration, I am fortified knowing Nima still had hope. And now Reine, born to Nima whose name means blessing or prayer, has me.

Today, like Nima, is a blessing. The sky has opened up and the soft pitter patter of light rain tickles our ears- inviting us to dance. So I will patiently comb Reine’s hair, parting it meticulously with my thirty nine year old fingers so that each side maintains just the right amount of curls. Then, I will gather Reine’s locks in a ponytail and decorate her tresses with a bright pink bow. All so Reine- burgeoning with expectation, can go outside and bask in the cool air, the dynamic wind and embrace the all knowing sky that beckons raised chins and closed eyes soaking in life’s infinite possibilities.