Last Summer with Maizon Read Online Free PDF Page B

since your daddy passed away?”
    â€œFour days,” Margaret said quietly, feeling her throat close around the words. She took a seat in the wooden rocking chair.
    â€œI know it seems like a lot longer than that, doesn’t it?” Grandma said.
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œGirl, the Lord works his magic in ways we don’t understand. You wonder who He is and why He does what He does. But you know it’s not for us to question.”
    â€œUh huh,” Margaret said, feeling sleepy and safe in the cinnamon-scented kitchen. The smoothness of Grandma’s voice floated over and comforted her. She didn’t want Grandma to stop speaking.
    â€œWhen I was a little girl on the reservation I came home one day to find my father had died. I didn’t want to believe it because my father had always been there to help me with what I was doing. We’d do carpentry and plant vegetables together and cook and laugh with each other. But then ... he wasn’t coming home anymore. The Cheyenne Indians have a custom—to take a part of something that belonged to the person who has died and bury it with that person. I took the last thing we had made together, a feather cape for the games I played, and buried it next to my father. I wanted him to know a part of me would always be with him the way a part of him would be with me. And you know something, I believe he went to heaven knowing that.” Grandma smiled at Margaret.
    â€œGrandma,” Maizon said from the refrigerator, “we don’t have any punch.”
    â€œIf you’re old enough to realize that, you’re old enough to make some. Now, you know where the mix is and you know where the water is.”
    Margaret sat up in the chair. She loved reservation stories.
    â€œMy granddaughter may be smart, but she doesn’t always have what is most important—common sense. Margaret, you have common sense. You know you are tired now and would like to take a nap. So why don’t you go on up to Maizon’s room and lie down? I’ll wake you when the rolls are ready.”
    â€œHey, what about the punch I’m making?” Maizon said from the sink.
    â€œI’ll drink it when I wake up,” Margaret promised, heading toward the stairs.
    Maizon sucked her teeth. “Sleepyhead,” she mumbled.
    Maizon’s grandmother put her hand on Maizon’s shoulder and said, “Let her rest, Maiz.”
    Margaret made her way down the quiet hallway. The stairs were covered with the same brown carpet as the living room, but the upstairs floors were bare. This part of Maizon’s house always smelled like wax and wood. Over the years, Margaret had come to love that smell.
    Maizon’s room was pink, with rainbow sheets and a matching comforter. She had shelves of books and stuffed animals. The dark oak dresser matched the wood of her canopied bed. Margaret wondered why Maizon loved sleeping at her house so much when she had such a great room. But she was too sleepy to think about it now.
    She took off her black patent leather shoes and climbed up onto Maizon’s bed. She watched the sun stream through the curtains for a while. Thoughts of her father brought fresh tears to her eyes. They had never made things the way Grandma did but they had talked about things. And he would sing to her. Margaret thought about the song he used to sing about blue skies after rain-storms and someone watching over her. Grandma’s voice drifted up from the kitchen.
    â€œYou have to be patient with Margaret, Maizon,” Grandma was saying. “Death is hard. You’re lucky you haven’t experienced it.”
    â€œMy mama died. Then Daddy went away. And I knew Mr. Tory.”
    â€œIt’s not the same,” Grandma said patiently. “Your mama died when you were just a baby and your father left when you were not much older than that. You knew neither of them. And Mr. Tory you didn’t know much better. He was