St. Ignatius of Big Sky
an essay about sisters, trailer houses, and Montana
In the Seattle restaurant, the service worker—the waitress—wore a “St. Ignatius” sweatshirt.
“Is that from St. Ignatius, Montana?” I asked.
“Yes,” the waitress said. “That’s my hometown. That’s where I grew up.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s where my big sister—“
I paused because I was just about to tell the waitress at 7 a.m. that my big sister and her husband died in a trailer house fire in St. Ignatius, Montana, in 1980. They were too drunk to wake even as the smoke filled their lungs. The waitress was young, born at least twenty years after the fire, so I doubt she even knew about the tragedy. There’s no mythology about my sister’s death other than what I’ve created over the years. I suddenly wanted to tell the waitress that my sister was only twenty-seven when she died. I wanted to tell the waitress that I’m still lonely for my sister but I also wanted to confess that my loneliness had waxed and waned over the decades. I wanted to tell the waitress that my grief was now a tender scar and not an open wound. I wanted to tell the waitress that I vividly remember my sister’s face but can’t recall the sound of her voice. I wondered if waitresses, like hairdressers and bartenders, sometimes become amateur mental health therapists.
Then I decided I couldn’t bring all my grief into that waitress’s life, so I revised history.
“My big sister lives in St. Ignatius,” I said. “She sings in the church choir.”
“Which church” the waitress asked.
“The one by the river,” I said.
The waitress smiled and nodded. There’s always a church by the river.
I don’t know why I invented that particular fiction. My big sister never went to church. But I spent the rest of the day imagining my sister, wearing a long white robe in the deep Montana snow, singing all of us a little closer to Heaven or whatever we like to call home.
Thank you, Sherman. This story alone caused me to upgrade to paid. (Substack gonna break me, Bro!) Beautiful and so tender. Unlike your experience, when I lost my Grandfather in 1965 the thing that lingered - that still lingers - is the sound of his voice. All these years later I can hear him chuckle as he corrected some youthful foolishness. We lived together, alone but for our border collie, Trigger, in a four-room adobe without indoor plumbing or running water in the high country of Northern New Mexico. He was my first and best teacher. Almost 60 years later he still guides me. And I'll bet that somehow, somewhere, your sister still abides with you as well. Just in another room.
So generous and loving. I hope to one day be free enough from grief, or at least less in its grip, to make something this beautiful out of it. Also "There’s always a church by the river." A quiet joke, and not the main point of the essay, but made me smile all the same. A safe bet in the Northwest, where pretty much every town was built along the river, which is also the path that the railroad follows. The church by the railroad tracks would probably be just as safe a bet, if not redundant :)