(this was written awhile ago and just edited now, today.)


On a Sunday two weeks ago, my Grams passed away. The Friday before my sister and I debated on whether to return home. Our ride bailed on us four hours before our departure time. She had papers to write and microfilms to copy. My car was our only hope and the belly of its hood hadn't seen the light of day (nor an oil change) in over seven months. I was nervous about the brakes.

And still, we went. Grams believed she saw us perched on her couch the week prior. Our dad was in the room listening to her talk to us, watching as she went to hug us and then wondered why we left so quickly. Mom told me she had been asking about me. She missed me.

The week prior, Grams entered hospice. The hospice worker assigned to my Grams gave my dad a sheet of paper listing the stages of death. People have lived for thousands of years. And death has yet to evolve.


My mother told me my Grams wasn't afraid of death. All her life she never feared the end.

And then it was the end. The day before, I watched the Woman who had never feared death, struggle with the weakness of her body and head. We watched her try to get off the couch, unable to lift her body and infuriated and hopeless knowing that to be true. "What will I do?" she pleaded. "What will I do?"

A punch hit my gut and a hand held tight twisting my organs, leaving me breathless. That was goodbye.