My dear sister Rose passed away unexpectedly on March 22, 2016. Her death shattered me. For a long time afterward, I wasn’t well mentally or emotionally. I tried to pull myself back together on my own, but I couldn’t. Thank God for my friends, who supported me and carried me when I couldn’t stand on my own.
Even now, I still grieve for Rose. That kind of loss never ends. I just learned how to live with it quietly inside of me. Rose and I were very close. I live in Germany. She lived in Texas. Distance never mattered. We talked almost every day.
We grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana, surrounded by a loving, close-knit family of fantastic Cajun cooks. Rose learned the culinary secrets from our mother and grandmother, both great chefs. They always graced our family tables with gumbo, spicy jambalaya, red beans and rice, or other famous New Orleans dishes.
When I was in the Army, I traveled to New Orleans every year to visit her for Mardi Gras. As the plane initiated landing, my heart broke as I watched from my window the countless homes in areas of New Orleans still covered with blue tarp. When the plane landed, I could not wait to see Rose. When I saw her, I just ran to her arms and cried as she held me. She knew. No explanation was needed. Returning there after Hurricane Katrina devastated our city was distressing in ways I still struggle to put into words. Seeing my beloved New Orleans so badly damaged felt like losing another family member. My beloved city was almost completely destroyed.
The moment we arrived at Rose’s apartment, I smelled it. Spicy red beans and rice with Italian smoked sausage. That smell wrapped around me like a warm blanket welcoming me home. While I was there, she always cooked my other favorites, too: seafood gumbo, jambalaya, boiled crabs. I was glad to visit her again.
Rose was extremely considerate. When I was in the Army, she sent me care packages all the time. No matter where I was stationed, she would send me all sorts of delicious goodies from New Orleans. Some packages contained several bags of Camellia Red Beans, a favorite local brand in New Orleans. I could never cook them like Rose did, so I rarely tried. I kept two bags of all the packages of red beans she sent me.
Rose was extremely thoughtful and always sent me cards for my birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas, and Easter. Sometimes she would send me a card just to thank me for being her sister.
One day, when I came home from shopping, I went into my kitchen and put my bags on the counter. Then, I went to the sink to wash my hands, but something on the edge of the sink caught my eye. There on the counter was One Red Bean.
I stared at it, confused. I knew I hadn’t taken out any of my bags of red beans. Still, I checked. I opened the drawer where I kept them, moved things aside, and pulled out both zip-lock bags. They were still sealed. Untouched. I hadn’t opened either one.
I felt relieved because I wasn’t losing my mind. That's when I knew. Rose had visited me while I was gone. That single red bean was her way of telling me she was still with me. Still watching over me. Still finding a way to say hello with one red bean. Some messages don’t need words.