My Grandmother Frances, Va, came to America from the Azores. Her trunk was filled with simple necessities:
Linen towels,
Some chemises,
A hair brush,
Some dresses, a few in cotton, maybe one in wool,
Probably an apron, certainly a rosary, and a biscuit porcelain angel.
As a child, I would quietly go into my Grandparent's bedroom, climb onto their bed that had a heavy handmade quilt that my Va made, while the grown ups talked around the kitchen table drinking coffee in white ironstone mugs and played heart.
Carefully I would stand on the bed, without stepping on the starched crocheted pillowcases, while reaching my hand into the small shell, that the angel held, to dip my fingers into the holy water that she carried. I would bless myself, as my Grandparents did every evening before they went to bed.
When I left America, to come to live in France, my Grandmother gave me her angel.
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