Ruby

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During the first fifteen years of my life, my birth and the events surrounding it were a mystery; as much a mystery as the number of stars that shone in the night sky over the bayou or where the silvery catfish hid on days when Grandpère couldn't catch one to save his life. I knew my mother only from the stories Grandmère Catherine and Grandpère Jack told me and from the few faded sepia photographs of her that we had in pewter frames. It seemed that for as long as I could remember, I always felt remorseful when I stood at her grave and gazed at the simple tombstone that read:

Gabrielle Landry

Born May 1, 1927

Died October 27, 1947

For my birth date and the date of her death were one and the same. Everyday and every night, I carried in my secret heart the ache of guilt when my birthday came around, despite the great effort Grandniece went through to make it a happy day. I knew it was as hard for her to be joyful as it was for me.

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