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"How to Float a Bell Cup"
a story
Pop-Pop was gone. Everyone said so. Everyone cried, especially Mom-Mom. Grandma and Grandpa, Mommy and Daddy, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends and brother Nate cried, because Pop-Pop was gone.
Joni cried too, because only she and Pop-Pop knew how to float a bell cup. Joni always begged him after dinner. “Tell me again, Pop-Pop. What’s the secret formula for floating a bell cup?”
“First,” he always said, “we borrow a bell cup from Mom-Mom’s potpourri basket. Then we rub pine sap where the stem broke off. Then we collect one dandelion tuft, one dust bunny, one clover flower, one downy feather, one pinch of powdered sugar, one spider web, one snippet of moss, one cotton ball, and one exceedingly long green thread. We mix these all together except the thread, and we stuff them into the bell cup.”
At the funeral, people spoke about Pop-Pop, what a fine man he was and how they missed him. No one noticed Pop-Pop sitting in the big chair beside the window. He watched. He listened. He smiled. Joni saw him, clear as water. She saw him at the cemetery, too, transparent as glass.
“Pop-Pop liked his funeral,” she told Mommy afterward.
Mommy hugged her. “Pop-Pop loved you.”
“Pop-Pop’s still here,” Joni said to Aunt Jess. “I saw him.”
“In spirit he’s here,” Aunt Jess replied.
“Pop-Pop watched us,” said Joni to Grandma, “from the big chair by the window.”
“We’ll never forget him,” Grandma declared.
Joni nudged Nate. “Did you see Pop-Pop in the big chair?”
Nate frowned. “Joni, Pop-Pop died.”
Fifty-seven people jammed Mom-Mom’s living room. They munched sandwiches and cookies. They talked about happy times with Pop-Pop.
“Remember that sandbox he built for the kids?”
“He baked the world’s best sourdough bread.”
“He hiked the Porcupine Mountains in the snow.”
Joni spied Pop-Pop leaning against the wall, his eyes cocoa brown like hers. She glimpsed the curtains through his body. “Are you here, Pop-Pop?” she whispered.
Silently he spoke. I’m here.
“But aren’t you in heaven?”
I am.
Quietly Joni reviewed the secret formula. “We row our boat midway across the river after a storm. We break the long green thread in half. We keep one half and drop the other half into the bell cup with the wispy bits. We float the bell cup on the water and close our eyes and count to a hundred. When we open our eyes, the bell cup is far away on the river’s current, and farther and farther and gone. We keep our green thread till the river dries. The thread inside the bell cup floats forever.”
Uncle Max plopped down beside her. “How you doing, Joni? Must be hard to lose your great-grandpa. You and he were buddies.”
Joni eyed Uncle Max. “He’s here, Uncle Max. I see him leaning against the wall. He watched us at the funeral, too. He liked it.”
Uncle Max nodded. “I’m sure he did.”
That night, Joni peered into the darkness. She saw Pop-Pop’s face, clear as a stream. “Pop-Pop, I miss you.” He looked at her. “We’re sad without you,” she said. “At the funeral, we cried. Why did you smile?”
A soft Wind breathed inside her. Because in heaven there is no sadness.
The next morning, Joni’s family drove to the track where Pop-Pop used to jog. “I can almost see him,” Grandma said, “running in his red shirt, checking his watch.”
Mom-Mom sighed. “I can’t believe he’s passed.”
Joni did not see Pop-Pop jogging in a red shirt. She saw his face, clear as air, gazing at the family from the trees. Joni tugged Uncle Max’s hand. “Is Pop-Pop here?” she asked.
“You tell me,” said Uncle Max.
“I think he is, but not like yesterday. Not his whole self.”
That afternoon she borrowed a bell cup from Mom-Mom’s basket of potpourri. The round pod looked like a pearl, large as her fist. The pod’s top was sliced off, and the inside was hollow. She scraped sap off the backyard pine and rubbed the sap onto the bell cup’s base. In the yard she gathered a dandelion tuft, a clover flower, a downy feather, a spider web, a snippet of moss. In the house she found a dust bunny, a pinch of powdered sugar, a cotton ball. Joni mixed them all together and stuffed them into the bell cup.
Mom-Mom’s sewing supplies sat in a closet in Mom-Mom’s bedroom. And Mom-Mom needed rest. Joni could not find a long green thread anywhere.
For five days Joni waited. She read books, worked puzzles, painted pictures, played with Nate. She placed the puzzles’ four corners first, then built the side edges, as Pop-Pop had taught her.
Sometimes Joni felt Pop-Pop in the room. She searched for his face, clear as a brook, but she didn’t find it. “Are you still here, Pop-Pop?” The air quivered as rain poured outside. No one answered.
Early the next day, the family visited Pop-Pop. Driving through the cemetery, they stopped at a wide patch of wet dirt. Everyone stood in a circle around the dirt. Joni squinted. “Is this it? There’s no gravestone.”
“This is Pop-Pop’s grave,” said Mom-Mom, laying a bouquet of flowers on the soil. “The stone will be placed next spring.”
Joni stared at the dirt. She pictured the casket, deep under the dirt, and Pop-Pop in his blue suit in the casket. People always said she laughed like him. She pitched left-handed like him, too.
Joni glanced around for Pop-Pop. She scanned the wet dirt, the grass, the graves, the flowers, the forest, the sky. Are you here, Pop-Pop?
In the distance she saw him, clear, small, fading. He was facing her.
“You still know me, don’t you Pop-Pop?” she whispered.
The soft Wind breathed again inside her. Pop-Pop knows you, it said.
You remember me? she asked.
He remembers, the Wind replied.
You still love me, Pop-Pop?
He still loves you, hummed the Wind.
Pop-Pop moved, paler and paler, toward the horizon.
Will I see you again, Pop-Pop?
The soft Wind rustled. You will, Joni, and he can hardly wait.
Joni shifted her feet. When? When will I see Pop-Pop?
After a lifetime, Joni, breathed the Wind. But to Pop-Pop, in barely a second.
Where? Where will I see him?
In heaven, Joni, promised the Wind. In heaven with God.
Joni blinked. Pop-Pop had slipped away. Everyone was walking toward the car.
“You alright, Joni?” Mommy asked.
Pop-Pop knows me. He remembers me. He loves me. I’ll see him again. Joni smiled at Mommy. “I’m okay.”
On the basement floor Joni found an exceedingly long green thread. Uncle Max rowed the boat. When they reached the middle of the river, Joni snapped the thread in half. She kept one half and dropped the other half into the bell cup with the wispy bits. She floated the bell cup on the water, closed her eyes, and counted to a hundred. When she opened her eyes the bell cup was far away on the river’s current, and farther and farther and gone.
“Uncle Max,” she said, “Pop-Pop’s still alive.”
Uncle Max nodded. “I know.”
Joni fingered the thread in her hand. “The thread’s not really broken.”
“No,” he replied. “It’s not breakable.” Uncle Max rowed the boat toward shore. “What will you do with your half, Joni?”
“I’ll keep mine till the river dries,” said Joni. “And the thread inside the bell cup will float forever.”
Joni cried too, because only she and Pop-Pop knew how to float a bell cup. Joni always begged him after dinner. “Tell me again, Pop-Pop. What’s the secret formula for floating a bell cup?”
“First,” he always said, “we borrow a bell cup from Mom-Mom’s potpourri basket. Then we rub pine sap where the stem broke off. Then we collect one dandelion tuft, one dust bunny, one clover flower, one downy feather, one pinch of powdered sugar, one spider web, one snippet of moss, one cotton ball, and one exceedingly long green thread. We mix these all together except the thread, and we stuff them into the bell cup.”
At the funeral, people spoke about Pop-Pop, what a fine man he was and how they missed him. No one noticed Pop-Pop sitting in the big chair beside the window. He watched. He listened. He smiled. Joni saw him, clear as water. She saw him at the cemetery, too, transparent as glass.
“Pop-Pop liked his funeral,” she told Mommy afterward.
Mommy hugged her. “Pop-Pop loved you.”
“Pop-Pop’s still here,” Joni said to Aunt Jess. “I saw him.”
“In spirit he’s here,” Aunt Jess replied.
“Pop-Pop watched us,” said Joni to Grandma, “from the big chair by the window.”
“We’ll never forget him,” Grandma declared.
Joni nudged Nate. “Did you see Pop-Pop in the big chair?”
Nate frowned. “Joni, Pop-Pop died.”
Fifty-seven people jammed Mom-Mom’s living room. They munched sandwiches and cookies. They talked about happy times with Pop-Pop.
“Remember that sandbox he built for the kids?”
“He baked the world’s best sourdough bread.”
“He hiked the Porcupine Mountains in the snow.”
Joni spied Pop-Pop leaning against the wall, his eyes cocoa brown like hers. She glimpsed the curtains through his body. “Are you here, Pop-Pop?” she whispered.
Silently he spoke. I’m here.
“But aren’t you in heaven?”
I am.
Quietly Joni reviewed the secret formula. “We row our boat midway across the river after a storm. We break the long green thread in half. We keep one half and drop the other half into the bell cup with the wispy bits. We float the bell cup on the water and close our eyes and count to a hundred. When we open our eyes, the bell cup is far away on the river’s current, and farther and farther and gone. We keep our green thread till the river dries. The thread inside the bell cup floats forever.”
Uncle Max plopped down beside her. “How you doing, Joni? Must be hard to lose your great-grandpa. You and he were buddies.”
Joni eyed Uncle Max. “He’s here, Uncle Max. I see him leaning against the wall. He watched us at the funeral, too. He liked it.”
Uncle Max nodded. “I’m sure he did.”
That night, Joni peered into the darkness. She saw Pop-Pop’s face, clear as a stream. “Pop-Pop, I miss you.” He looked at her. “We’re sad without you,” she said. “At the funeral, we cried. Why did you smile?”
A soft Wind breathed inside her. Because in heaven there is no sadness.
The next morning, Joni’s family drove to the track where Pop-Pop used to jog. “I can almost see him,” Grandma said, “running in his red shirt, checking his watch.”
Mom-Mom sighed. “I can’t believe he’s passed.”
Joni did not see Pop-Pop jogging in a red shirt. She saw his face, clear as air, gazing at the family from the trees. Joni tugged Uncle Max’s hand. “Is Pop-Pop here?” she asked.
“You tell me,” said Uncle Max.
“I think he is, but not like yesterday. Not his whole self.”
That afternoon she borrowed a bell cup from Mom-Mom’s basket of potpourri. The round pod looked like a pearl, large as her fist. The pod’s top was sliced off, and the inside was hollow. She scraped sap off the backyard pine and rubbed the sap onto the bell cup’s base. In the yard she gathered a dandelion tuft, a clover flower, a downy feather, a spider web, a snippet of moss. In the house she found a dust bunny, a pinch of powdered sugar, a cotton ball. Joni mixed them all together and stuffed them into the bell cup.
Mom-Mom’s sewing supplies sat in a closet in Mom-Mom’s bedroom. And Mom-Mom needed rest. Joni could not find a long green thread anywhere.
For five days Joni waited. She read books, worked puzzles, painted pictures, played with Nate. She placed the puzzles’ four corners first, then built the side edges, as Pop-Pop had taught her.
Sometimes Joni felt Pop-Pop in the room. She searched for his face, clear as a brook, but she didn’t find it. “Are you still here, Pop-Pop?” The air quivered as rain poured outside. No one answered.
Early the next day, the family visited Pop-Pop. Driving through the cemetery, they stopped at a wide patch of wet dirt. Everyone stood in a circle around the dirt. Joni squinted. “Is this it? There’s no gravestone.”
“This is Pop-Pop’s grave,” said Mom-Mom, laying a bouquet of flowers on the soil. “The stone will be placed next spring.”
Joni stared at the dirt. She pictured the casket, deep under the dirt, and Pop-Pop in his blue suit in the casket. People always said she laughed like him. She pitched left-handed like him, too.
Joni glanced around for Pop-Pop. She scanned the wet dirt, the grass, the graves, the flowers, the forest, the sky. Are you here, Pop-Pop?
In the distance she saw him, clear, small, fading. He was facing her.
“You still know me, don’t you Pop-Pop?” she whispered.
The soft Wind breathed again inside her. Pop-Pop knows you, it said.
You remember me? she asked.
He remembers, the Wind replied.
You still love me, Pop-Pop?
He still loves you, hummed the Wind.
Pop-Pop moved, paler and paler, toward the horizon.
Will I see you again, Pop-Pop?
The soft Wind rustled. You will, Joni, and he can hardly wait.
Joni shifted her feet. When? When will I see Pop-Pop?
After a lifetime, Joni, breathed the Wind. But to Pop-Pop, in barely a second.
Where? Where will I see him?
In heaven, Joni, promised the Wind. In heaven with God.
Joni blinked. Pop-Pop had slipped away. Everyone was walking toward the car.
“You alright, Joni?” Mommy asked.
Pop-Pop knows me. He remembers me. He loves me. I’ll see him again. Joni smiled at Mommy. “I’m okay.”
On the basement floor Joni found an exceedingly long green thread. Uncle Max rowed the boat. When they reached the middle of the river, Joni snapped the thread in half. She kept one half and dropped the other half into the bell cup with the wispy bits. She floated the bell cup on the water, closed her eyes, and counted to a hundred. When she opened her eyes the bell cup was far away on the river’s current, and farther and farther and gone.
“Uncle Max,” she said, “Pop-Pop’s still alive.”
Uncle Max nodded. “I know.”
Joni fingered the thread in her hand. “The thread’s not really broken.”
“No,” he replied. “It’s not breakable.” Uncle Max rowed the boat toward shore. “What will you do with your half, Joni?”
“I’ll keep mine till the river dries,” said Joni. “And the thread inside the bell cup will float forever.”
In Memory of Alan H. Stark
© Suzanne Werkema