She was truly like a third grandmother to my sister and me.
Whenever we would have family gatherings for holidays or birthdays, we would
invite her. She was a part of our lives. But it was not just us who were
impacted by her—she was a great-grandmother with a large family.
I am happy that she never had to be placed in assisted
living. She defiantly continued to go shopping and carry laundry up and down
steep cement stairs on her own. She drove, too—probably better than me. She was
fiercely independent.
Her husband died some time ago, but she kept his memory
alive in her heart. One time, while I was visiting, she showed me poetry that
she wrote every year for him. I wish I could remember it—it was quite
beautiful.
She was definitely a feisty one, loving to watch Judge Judy
give the smackdown to miscreants and deadbeat parents. One time, a
brush-trimming vehicle cleared the banks against the road, but missed the weeds
and mowed down her flowers instead. The next day, she put a large sign in place
of her garden which read: “THE STATE DID THIS.”
Despite these memories, I do not feel like someone has just
died. I did not feel much emotion over my own grandmother’s passing until my
cousins and I were up at the coffin, crying together as the grouchy funeral
director tried to get us out of the building (it was near the end of business
hours). Another reason why I am not overwhelmed may be that this was not a
surprise. From the time I heard reports of how she was doing in the hospital, I
knew that she might not be long for this world.
My religious sensibilities are often ill-defined, but I
sincerely hope that she is in a better place. I take comfort in the thought
that whether there is something after death or not, she is no longer suffering.
