The Red Flannel Rag

“Did the nail hole tear?” I wondered to myself as I studied the back of the picture.

“The nail hole didn’t tear,” I said to Hilda. I checked the nail in the wall. It was still

there and had not slipped. There was no identifiable reason for the picture suddenly

falling off the wall.

I went back to Mom’s bedside. She had slipped deeper into the coma. Her

breathing was more shallow and not as frequent, but very peaceful. Hilda was still

holding her hand and caressing her forehead. We knew the end was very near. We

gathered around the bed.

Just as we all settled around Mom’s bed, she opened her eyes and looked up. Her

eyes were focused and staring. We knew she was seeing something the rest of us could

not see. Hilda asked her, “What do you see, Mom? Do you see Pap up there with a big

birthday cake? Are all your friends waitin’ for you to come to your birthday party?”

Mom’s mouth opened in a huge smile, as she continued to stare at the ceiling. At that

moment, her head rolled to the left, and she died.

Hilda, with tears rolling down her cheeks and an angelic glow on her face, looked

up at all of us standing around the bed and said, “Now she’s up there telling them they

didn’t bake the birthday cake right. I can hear her now, ‘What did y’all put in this

icing?’”

The comment was so appropriate. The same image came into everyone’s head.

Mom was now judging the talents of the cooks in heaven. We all broke into laughter

and began our own comments. My sister said with a smile between sobs, “Now she’s

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