Of course, on the last day of her life, it was all things that rose and entombed her. We merely stood and watched, neither surprised nor in tears. In fact, no one was remotely distressed because everyone, including Irma herself, had seen this coming. Irma had been predicting it for months. I was still a little girl at that time, listening to stories of my family's past from my grandfather, who loved me more than anyone.
The year Irma was born was 1934, the first of her parents' two children. She was born feet first, on the night of a full moon, with the coyotes howling out behind the house. Her mother almost died birthing her, and the nurse had never seen such a tiny baby in all her life. She was so sure that Irma would die, and could not understand how a child not born prematurely could be so little. Being little was something from which Irma never escaped, though it was something she hid with all her might. But Irma Theley was not a person who was known to complain. She was a tame little child, who squirmed only in tight spaces on hot days. She was an unusual child, to say the least.
Where I begin my recount of my family's history is with the birth of Tara and George Theley's second child, to be named Mary. Young Irma was three years old at the time, and had been fascinated with her mother's stomach for the past nine months. Tara spent the entirety of her pregnancy with the hands of her toddler on her stomach, talking to her sister as if she were already a real person. When Tara went in to labor, Irma went screaming through the house, alerting her father and all the neighbors to the event.