My Little Elizabeth

         

            He walked slowly, reverently, down the little path lined with yellow and purple pansies.  He vowed that for as many summers as he is living, this place would never be free of flowers.  It brought him great comfort to wander in the hothouses and pick out flowers he knew she would have loved, and then give them to Amy, Jo and Meg to lovingly plant and care for.  As he came closer, he could hear the faintest sound of ringing bells.  That was Jo’s idea.  The girls had tied small bells to some of the plants so when the wind rustled the leaves, there was the beautiful silvery sound of bells.  “Beth needs music,” Jo had said, “And she shall have it.”

            

            “Drandpa Lauwence,” came the small voice from the girl at his side, and the small chubby hand in his pulled loose and tugged on his jacket.

            “Yes darling Bess,” he answered softly. 

            “We going to see Auntie Beff?” the golden-haired child smiled up at him. 

            “Yes Princess,” he replied and a fresh pang of sadness tore at his heart as he thought about how the girl who had brought so much light, love, and music to their lives, would only exist through stories to her small little namesake.  He loved that Amy told Bess that Aunt Beth was a beautiful guardian angel who would always watch over her and inspire her to do good things.

            

               They arrived at the grave, and even though it had been five years since her passing, Mr. Lawrence took in a sharp breath as tears stung in his eyes.  Five years later and still the thoughts ran through his mind, “If only…” If he only he hadn’t been in Europe.  If only he could have used his money to send her to the best doctors, on as many holidays as she needed.  If only he could have done something.  When he had first arrived home from Europe, he had had long late night talks with the Marches, as they told him about the final year and assured him that there was nothing anyone could have done.  And yet he knew perfectly well that they were all haunted with the same question. 

           

               He thought back to that day at the house, when they came to say goodbye to the family before leaving for Europe.  He tried to remember every detail of that day, the last time he would ever see her.  He had been so consumed with thoughts of the trip, worry over his boy’s broken heart and disappointment over Jo’s decision to reject the proposal, he hadn’t been thinking of much else. He had made his rounds, saying goodbye to each of the girls and his good friends.  Finally he came to Beth and smiled down at her, brushing his finger down the bridge of her nose and saying softly, “Goodbye my Elizabeth, whatever shall I do without my girl?” He saw her eyes light up as they always did when he called her “my girl,” and then he saw something else happen, as if a cloud had suddenly rolled in.  Her eyes looked as though her heart were breaking. 

            

             “Darling, what is it?” he stepped closer to her, and for one brief moment, he considered cancelling the trip.  But the storm passed as quickly as it had come on and she smiled again and then hugged him tightly. 

            “Goodbye Grandfather” she whispered into his jacket.  It was the first time she had called him that and he had been so delighted at this display of affection that he had almost forgotten his anxiety over the strange look in her eyes.  He gently kissed her forehead and left.  

               The letter from Jo would come six months later.  The tear stains on the paper saying more than the actual letter.  He still remembered the awful feeling as he had realized that Beth had known she would not see him again.  He felt as the air was sucked out of him as he read the words, “There is not much time left.”   He was determined to cut his trip short and go home but Jo wrote of how Beth pleaded for him not to come on account of her.  It broke his heart, but he would abide by her wishes. Jo would later tell him on one of their walks together that Beth had not wanted him to suffer the way he had when his little granddaughter Patricia had died.  If he were away, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so much.  Perhaps he would be able to forget a little easier.   She was wrong.   He wrote letters and sent little trinkets he hoped would make her smile: music boxes that played her favorite melodies, sugar plums, brilliantly colored postcards.  For a time, she would small simple letters that talked of anything else but herself.  They would always be signed, “With Love, Your Little Elizabeth.” He treasured those letters.  Then one day, a letter arrived that was shorter than all the rest.  It simply said,

               “Dear Grandfather, I am not like Jo.  I don’t know the words to say what I feel.  But please know that I am so grateful to have been your girl.  I hope I can be as good of an angel as Patricia.  I will tell her how good you have been to me.  I love you, Your Little Elizabeth.”

                He wrote back and told her that he was not good at finding the words either, but he loved her as dearly as if she were his own flesh and blood.  There were no more letters after that, and he was haunted with thoughts of her final days.  With a spiritual fervency he had not known in years, he pleaded with God to ease Beth’s suffering and to let her release from life be as gentle as possible.  The letter from Jo came on a cold and rainy day.  There wasn’t much, just a line about Beth’s peaceful passing and gratitude expressed to him and Laurie for all they had meant to Beth.  Laurie had left immediately to go to Amy and so he was left alone with his grief.  There were moments in the next weeks and months that he could feel Beth’s presence so clearly that he could almost hear music, the beloved old tunes he would ask her to play for him. It helped so much those first few months.  As time went on, and to his delight Amy and Laurie became engaged and then shortly married, he found himself caught up in life again and the pain slowly got better. 

               Still, as the time came to return home, his heart ached at the thought of visiting the Marches and seeing Beth’s place empty.  He knew there would be no more summer twilight evenings listening to her playing the piano for him, but even still as he opened up the house and saw the piano in the music room, he forgot for a moment, only to have reality come crashing down again.   When he had visited the Marches, he tried to focus on the person he knew was feeling Beth’s loss greater than anyone.  When the time was right, he had put his arm around Jo and whispered, “You must be my girl now,” And with that statement came the promise that he would watch over her and be a devoted grandfather and friend all the rest of his days. 

                The years had passed, bringing more marriages, more children, more laughter and tears that sealed his heart to the March family more than ever.  Now, here they were, five years later.  The little Elizabeth who stood beside him and held onto his thumb, had not taken her aunt’s place, no one could do that, but had brought more joy to him than he had known in a long time.  He reached up and wiped away a tear from his eyes, and then lovingly brushed his hands over the words on the headstone, “Elizabeth March. Our Angel in Heaven.”

               “Drandpa Lauwence,” Bess quietly said as she tugged on his jacket sleeve. “Auntie Beff is the sweetest angel in Heaven.”

               “Yes Princess,” he said softly.  “She certainly is.

                 He looked up into the sky, feeling the warmth of the sunshine on his face, “Until next time my little Elizabeth,” he said as he took Bess’ hand and turned to walk away.   A soft wind came up and he could have sworn he heard the bells gently ringing out the melody of his favorite hymn.  He smiled, knowingly.