Illness. My Grandma died yesterday. It was her time. She’s in the arms of Jesus. She wanted to go.
I’m pretty certain all these things are supposed to make me feel better. And they do. But.
For the past 3 or 4 years every visit was deemed the last. For her 90th birthday, almost 5 years ago, we had a party. I would call this the beginning of the end. The cousins even joked that the next time we would all be together again would be her funeral. Gone are the days of talk – for this is real. She’s breathed her last.
I wasn’t ready. Emotionally. Oh believe me, I’m so glad she’s no longer in pain. She wanted to go. She was done. But I’ll never again hear her say, “Well hello Laura.”I’d tell her I loved her and she’d act all nervous and tell me she loved me too.
You see, my Grandma was blunt and tactless. The apple doesn’t fall very far does it? I still remember the day she looked over at me and told me I should cut off all my hair because hair is gross. I took a moment, reflected on my blonde locks, and told her to get over it. She smiled. I smiled. And we continued on our journey to the mail box. Getting the mail was one of those things we did together. And if her knees were bothering her, she’d wave at me as I walked by.
When people invest in your life, and then they are gone, you can’t help but look at the past. And smile. Smile for all the ice cream for breakfast. Endless chickens plucked. Summer days by the creek. Dirt cooking in a play house. Worlds largest fan of April Fools. My first pen-pal.
My Grandma was born in 1919. Black people didn’t marry white people. I was nervous about her meeting Q. I shouldn’t have.
I’m missing the funeral. My heart feels as if it is being squeezed by a giant, so tightly that my jaw aches, as if sucking a lemon lolly. She’s already gone. My last goodbye and hug was in fact, our last goodbye.
She reached her arms to Jesus.
They gave her 24 hours to live.
And then she was gone.