Pap-pap died the year Denise graduated from school. She left Pittsburgh for the wider world, harboring resentment like a miser, glad to be gone and on her own. The west coast was as far from her childhood home as she could get without actually leaving the country. Gradually, her grip on resentment loosened and she realized that there was worth in her home.
Less than a year after her return, Denise's grandmother died from a sudden heart attack. She is helping her mother clear the attic while aunts and cousins do the same in other parts of the house, sorting the desirable from the detritus. They push boxes out of the crawl space under the eaves, open them for a cursory inspection and sort them according to final destination. On top of the last stack of boxes is a roll of yellowed paper, tied with twine and furry with years of accumulated dust. Slipping the twine off the roll, the paper shifts into a loose drift of curls. She holds the edges, surprised at the color and the memory that surfaces from decades past.
Her mother looks over her shoulder, "Huh! What did you find there?"
Denise glances up. "These paintings that I did, maybe in grade school. I remember doing these. Grandma was so angry, so were you and Dad. And Pap-pap, he almost went through the ceiling!"
"Of course she was angry. You went through a dozen bottles of extracts and food coloring, not to mention all the wrapping paper. And you made one hell of a mess, dumping that stuff into the molds. And your clothes, you completely ruined them."
"Yeah, well, I understand that. I know I made a huge mess. Remember? I had to clean it all up, by myself."
"Oh, by yourself." Mom rolls her eyes. "You were nine, chickadoodle. We made you do what you could, but believe me, your grandmother had considerable work to do after we left."
"I guess so." Frowning, Denise pushes the papers around a little. There are dozens of sheets, edges yellowed with age. "Yes, of course you're right. But why save them?"
"You must have been asleep this past week. We've been clearing this house from dawn till dusk for three days. She never threw anything out."
Denise opens one of the last three boxes and finds hard tubes of watercolors, brushes and a pad of yellowed watercolor paper neatly packed. "Hey, look at this. Whose were these, Mom?"
"Your grandmother's, I think. I remember that she used to paint a bit." She cracked another carton open, releasing a musty smell from the old fabric folded inside. "Is any of it good after all these years? You can take it if you want." She wrinkles her nose and fans the air. "Gah, the dust! I need something to drink."

Mom goes downstairs to get some iced tea. From the voices rising from the lower floor, Denise knows that she has gotten distracted by one of the aunts and won't return.
Stored in the back of the crawl space, these few boxes are the last of the job to clear the attic. Each yields a miscellany of materials; hard tubes of paint, gummy bottles of linseed oil and dry-rotted canvas. She sorts the contents, stacking brushes and paper that are still usable in a carton, stuffing the rest into trash bags.
In the last box are rolls of paintings. Some had been done on scraps of wallpaper, ghost patterns of roses behind the faces of children. Faded after so many years and much neglect, what was once brilliant in hue has grayed and softened. Buried in the rolls, Denise finds her own likeness, painted when she was in high school. The imperfect mirror of the portrait stares back at her with lidless, bright blue eyes. Fantastic birds, exotic in color, feathers rendered in precise detail, are worked into the vines that cascade around the border and faint traces of antique carriages stagger across the background
Two months ago, her own paintings had been featured at a small gallery on the other side of the city. At the reception, she saw her grandmother standing in front of a large canvas, a nearly empty glass of wine in her hand. A half hour later, finally managing a quiet moment, Denise searched the crowd for her familiar figure. She stood in front of the same painting with a fresh glass of wine, perplexity drawing her brows together. A loosely-rendered figure of a woman dominates the canvas, limbs wrapped with tattoos of snakes, staring at the dozen apples cradled in her lap. They were deep in discussion when Denise had been pulled away. Grandma had waved her on, agreeable to Denise's suggestion to get together at the studio. Forgotten in the tide of work and friends, the visit had never materialized.
"Denise, c'mon down here" Mom's muffled voice climbs the narrow stairway.
"Coming." Lifting the carton of salvaged materials, she tucks the roll of paintings under her arm, navigates the stairway from the attic to the second floor. These rooms have been cleared; trash bags line the walls and beds have been broken down, knick-knacks and mementoes have been boxed up, their final destination scrawled across the cartons. The murmur of voices rise from the first floor and Denise follows their sound to the dining room, leaving her burdens in the hall. Aunt Chrissy is pouring wine into an array of glittering wineglasses and Pat, her youngest daughter, is passing through the crowd of over twenty women with a loaded tray. Taking a glass as she passes, Denise weaves through the small knots of women to Maria, who is leaning against the wall near the kitchen door.
"Is everybody here? I don't see Trudi" Aunt Chrissy pushes her glasses firmly back and peers around the room.
"I'm here, Gran." Trudi raises her arm, standing in the doorway from the living room. "Just wanted to finish this last box."
Aunt Chrissy smiles at her granddaughter. "All set then? Good." She looks up at the chandelier and purses her lips, waiting for the murmur of voices to fade. She begins: "I am Magdelaine Bance's sister. She lived as long a life as she was supposed to and God granted her a passing that was as swift as mercy would allow. May He show us all the same consideration." And touches the glass to her lips.
The taste of cherries blooms on Denise's tongue as she sips from her glass. She glances at Maria, who grimaces at the sweetness. Aunt Chrissy nods encouragement to Denise's mother. Tipping her head to the side, she says "Magdelaine was my Mother-in-Law. From her example, I learned the value of a sharp tongue and the wit to use it."
Some of the other women laugh in sympathy, having been on the receiving end of Magdelaine's sharpness. Aunt Terry taps a finger in annoyance against the side of her glass, waiting for the voices to quiet after Mom's terse statement. "I am Magdelaine's oldest daughter. She taught me to make wine and cookies. She helped me when my oldest child was colicky and crying all night long. Dan would have left me except that she was there."
From her place by the kitchen door, Denise listens as her aunts and cousins list gratitudes and grievances. She realizes that the toasts are being passed from eldest to youngest and that she is expected to acknowledge her grandmother's life with the same degree of honesty. She watches the women as they talk, seeing the gleam of tears, the glitter of malice and the dullness of apathy in their eyes.
It's Maria's turn. She lifts her face to reveal silver tracks of tears. "I am Magdelaine's youngest daughter, coming late in her life. She was tired when she had me. When I was little, we would spend hours quilting. Some of you have one of the quilts that we made. I learned from her to respect the gift of time that comes with making beautiful things."
Denise shifts away from the wall, sips a little wine to moisten her throat. Aunt Terry touches her on the shoulder, indicates that Denise should make her toast. "I am Magdelaine's oldest granddaughter. I've been gone a long time. I didn't know Grandma very well when I left but after spending these last few days clearing her house and listening to your stories, I believe that we would have had a lot in common."
She closes her eyes for a moment, listens as Cathy begins her worn-out rant about how she and her brothers and sisters were ignored by Grandmother Bance. Progressing through the tangle of grand- and great-grandchildren, the toasts finish with Trudi's oldest daughter, who had turned twelve just a month ago, and says gravely that Grandma made the best anise pizzelles ever. With that last sentiment, the women drain their glasses and begin the slow dance of leave-taking. Cartons and purses are gathered and tones of wheedling and cajoling overtake the tenor of voices as negotiations for transportation begin.
Pat and Aunt Chrissy gather and rinse glasses, leaving them in the dish drainer. They will be in tomorrow when the men come, to direct the removal of the boxes and furniture. Mom disappears with Aunt Terry, going down to the cellar to look over the boxes of Pap-pap's candy molds. Denise takes her things out to the sidewalk to wait, knowing that negotiations will end with Mom driving Trudi and her children home. Cigarette lit, she sits on the stoop and looks down the narrow street at the flat-faced houses that sit cheek-to-cheek, their chins resting on the sidewalk, cascading down the hill.
Denise nudges at the carton, thinks about materials abandoned for so long their usefulness has expired. Gently, she runs a hand along the roll of paintings rescued from the attic; time-stamped images of aunts and cousins parade through her mind. In her studio are a half dozen large canvasses, ready for the imprint of images. She imagines her hands sifting through the portraits, trimming pieces to layer with paint and words. To express the complexity of her family's relationships will be a goal that is impossible to achieve; the attempt will be its own reward.