Goodnight, Grandma

                My earliest memories are of free flight. Age 4… running, catching speed, spreading my wings, and flying! Those brief seconds until I landed softly in the grass below. My grandmother’s front porch was the ultimate runway – and I remember very well the warmth on my face and the sun in my eyes each time I lifted my face to the sky and opened my mouth with giddy laughter as I’d tumble and roll… and climb the steps to do it all again. Each time, exclaiming “Watch this, Grandma!” And each time, she’d turn her head and smile and watch as I flew and landed, again and again and again.

                I remember popsicles in the summertime. She had a deep freezer in the garage and whenever I’d visit my grandfather would carry me to the garage and I’d pick my favorite flavor. I’d sit on the patio while my parents visited with them and I’d cool my tongue on the frozen treat and watch roly polies crawl across the concrete.

                I remember the yellow shag carpet in her house. The yellow armchairs in the bedroom next to the bed. M*A*S*H* playing on the TV. The green linoleum tile in her bathroom. The fiber optic flowers that sat atop her organ in the living room that changed colors when you turned them on. The Santa she brought out at Christmas that shook his hips while he rang a bell when you pushed the button. The stand near the front door that always had cookies or fruit sitting in a bowl atop the microwave.

                Miller Lite, and cigarettes. Her white hair. The gloves she wore to garden in the summertime. The dandelions I’d always pick from her front yard and give to her as a gift. The rocks I hid in the tree that I’d ask my grandfather for each time I visited. The honeysuckle bush that lined the yard that always smelled so sweet. Clarence, the cat. Reloading shotgun shells in the garage. Caroline visiting. Uncle Louie. Uncle Ray. Laughing. Always laughing. Smiles, and love, and light, and family.

                Death, inevitably, is a part of life. For my grandmother, that means that during her 86^th year of life, God will welcome her home. I’m not sure why my heart hurts for that. We work so hard during our years of living to come to terms with change. Life’s changes. Life’s losses… saying goodbye, and hello… I’m still examining this for myself.

                During the ride to Houston, I imagined what it would be like to see her, ill. What would I say, how would I react? I wasn’t quite prepared for how wasted she’d become. I figured I’d have a chance to speak to her and have her comprehend me. I wanted to ask her to tell my father hello for me when she got to Heaven. I wanted to tell her to come to me in my dreams, as my aunt and father both have.

                Just as in Israel, when I prepared to pray beneath the shrine at Jesus’ feet, I practiced in my head what I’d say when I had a moment alone with Grandma. And just like in Israel, I was robbed of the moment. I walked in, and this frail, fragile life lay lingering on a bed in the corner of a room. Bones, covered in a thin layer of skin. I didn’t even recognize her. When she spoke, they were only sounds muttered from a toothless mouth… a dry tongue, pushing vowels between lips. Once or twice, I think, we made eye contact. I held her hand and tried to hold myself together because I’m not one to cry in front of other people.

                I held her hand. I held it tight between both of mine and felt her cool skin and the rush of life through her veins and I held on to what little time we had left together. I focused hard on the conversation around so as not to cry, all the while oblivious to my surroundings because I was willing my thoughts toward her. She said some things… some inaudible things and I felt so sorry that I couldn’t understand her…. There was a brief moment though where she spoke one word that is universal. In a fleeting exchange of grace, she squeezed my hand with hers and I knew it could only mean one thing. Love. I held that embrace for as long as she allowed and when I looked again she’d closed her eyes.

                As our visit came to a close, I found it easier than I thought it would be to say goodbye. I knew that this would be the last time I’d see her alive. However who I saw now and who I knew then were not one and the same. Her birth into the next life was well underway. A selfish side of me was almost envious of the ones who would get to welcome her into it. It was easy to walk away, knowing she was loved and well cared for until her journey was complete. I was sad for me. Living memories were turning to stone, another chapter in my book forever closed. I kissed her on the cheek and breathed the scent of her and whispered “Goodnight, Grandma” before turning to walk down the hall. And as I stood in the driveway, hugging my aunt, I looked in my grandmother’s window and saw her sleeping on her bed. My final vision. Roll credits.