In the Shade of the Crepe Myrtle
In the summer of 1984, my cousin Steve and his wife Darlene buried their six-month-old son, Brian Stevenson Cherry. Steve’s sister Sheila planted a crepe myrtle tree next to the grave of her nephew, whom she would never get to see climb a tree, play with her own sons, or grow up to start his own family.
My aunt Darlene and uncle Bert were Sheila and Steve’s parents. Sheila inherited her mother’s auburn hair and sassy personality; Steve reflected his father’s calm demeanor.
On a sultry summer afternoon in late July 2026, I stood under the shade of that crepe myrtle in the 100+ degree heat north of Dallas, Texas, as the family buried Sheila near her nephew. It was a touching, full-circle moment.
The fact that the plot was still available next to Brian’s grave and that crepe myrtle tree in 2026 added another element of destiny to the graveside memorial.
The crepe myrtle spread its branches wide, as if carrying the visions of both lives — the infant she never saw grow up and the woman she became.
Sheila’s celebration of life was a bittersweet gathering of family and friends. In just Sheila’s side of the family, forty-two of us were present. I hadn’t seen some of my cousins in more than a decade. The reunion was long overdue.
My cousin Shawn, Sheila’s nephew, shared with me that when teenagers Sheila and Steve were still living at home and he slept over at his nanny’s house, their mother had to tell them to be quiet.
Sheila and my sister Debbie were four months apart in age, grew up about 700 miles apart, but when they got together for family reunions, they were inseparable, mischievous, and fun. Shawn remembered his nanny having to shush Sheila and Debbie as well.
The most famous example was when Sheila came with her parents to visit my family in Vandalia, Illinois. Sheila and Debbie were about sixteen. After the families enjoyed the feast my mom and aunt Darlene prepared, a pile of dirty dishes waited for Sheila and Debbie to wash.
Debbie and Sheila knew the expectation, but they still snuck out through a bedroom window to entertain themselves in the barn. I guess they thought the dishes would wash themselves.
Imagine their surprise when they returned to the house to find that same pile of dirty dishes while the adults enjoyed visiting in the living room. They learned sneaking out did not grant them an excuse from washing the dishes. It only delayed the inevitable.
As young adults, Sheila and Debbie chose caregiving professions by obtaining nursing degrees. They were both loving wives and mothers in their families, and beloved in their communities. Debbie’s career took her through the pathways of nursing and hospice administration, while Sheila spent much of her career caring for students in the school system.
Grief has a way of surfacing poignant connections. At Sheila’s memorial, as I pulled my cousins in close, the descendants of my uncle Bert and aunt Darlene, I recalled Debbie’s sudden death twenty-two years ago, in 2004, in a car accident. Debbie had one two-year-old granddaughter when she passed. My sister’s grandchildren never knew their Nanny Deb. Sheila’s grandchildren will always remember their Mimi.
In late July 2026, when I traveled from Florida to honor my cousin’s memory, I reflected on all the love in that room—the grandparents hugging their grandchildren; the cousins wrapping their arms around each other. Most of my aunt Darlene’s grandchildren have grown up living within the same state as their cousins. I hope they realize how blessed they are to have that proximity to family.
Tears filled my eyes with the memory of my husband’s death as I witnessed Sheila's husband of 50 years reach his hand into the casket to caress his beloved's cheek.
When the song “I Can Only Imagine” played during the video montage prepared by Sheila’s daughter-in-law Julie, I could envision Debbie welcoming her beloved cousin into Heaven. Perhaps a host of other family members joined the party, and her nephew Brian greeted his aunt Sheila with a warm embrace in the shade of a heavenly myrtle oak tree.