A man’s voice on the answering machine announced, “My mother, Sarah Butler, passed away last night.”
I checked the date. It was from two weeks before. My husband and I had been away on vacation. It was too late to send flowers. I sent a card immediately but only time to grieve would heal my heart.
I lost a friend. But Sarah had given me so much more than friendship. She had provided me with tolerance, family and trust. She was my connection to another culture, someone I could ask questions without offense. And she was my connection to an historical period in my life. She had even met my parents. Now she was gone.
I called her house. Lottie, one of her daughters answered.
“Miss Sherie, I’m so glad you called,” she said. She answered my questions about the funeral and she told me about her mother’s last evening.
“The night my mama died she called to me. There was something important she wanted me to know.
“’Lottie, you are the lucky one of my children,’ Mama said. ‘Sherie is a good woman. I want you to keep her. She is your sister.’”
And this is the way I was passed on to the next generation.
