This is me, tearfully pressing myself up to the
monitor.
My Grandma died. She was not strong enough to take the tubes and respirator and they found a blood clot and she also had pneumonia. I am pressing myself into the screen because I need a hug. REALLY REALLY BAD.
This whole thing does not make sense to me. I am very sad and inarticulate. I imagine my Grandpa wandering around his big new house, lonely. Packing up her things. Finding the Christmas cards she stashed before she went into the hospital on the 20th of December. What will he do? I am glad Grandma is no longer doped up on morphine. I imagine her free and weightless, ageless and full of joy. It is really for the left over people that I grieve. We are the ones looking haggard, making dreaded phone calls, feeling stunned by weird changes.
I struggle to capture in words who my Grandma was, what she did for eighty years. I can not catch her. She slips through. I can not spell her laugh.
Grandma, exit stage left. That’s me, Grandma, clapping like mad. I want an encore. I want one last “aw shucks”, one more time where you spread your garage sale treasures before me and I exclaim joyously that whatever you have found is exactly what I have always wanted.