(no subject)
When I walked into your room, you were as white as your hair and as skinny as your bones would allow. I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it. We all came to say one last goodbye to you that day. I’d like to think that you had one last good memory to hang on to, but I know that your memory was gone before your body caught up. Everyone fought back tears that day. We laughed and reminisced, but we knew that it was the last time we would do it with you around. We knew that would be the last time we would sing to you and have you sing back in your sweet, weak voice. We knew that the next time we’d get together it would be in a room with flowers, each one shouting “we lost you.”
And a mere two days later, there we were. It was a sea of black. Each one of us greeted you as we walked in. You looked like the you from my memories, the one before the cancer ate away at you. Your children stood in a line greeting each mourner as they walked past and said a silent prayer. The rest of us weren’t quite sure of what to do. The older ones sat in chairs, the younger ones ran around. You’d be happy to see how many people turned out to see you. You’d be happy to see how many people loved you and the life you created for yourself and the life you started for the rest of us. Hundreds, maybe a thousand people kneeled before you and smiled at your pictures, just proving how may lives you have touched.
I blink, and I’m driving to the funeral parlor again. But, it’s for the last time. Today is the last day I get to see you. There are more tears today than yesterday as the prayers are said and each one of us is lead back to the line of cars. You would have laughed and smiled your warm smile at seeing how many cars there were escorting you to your church.
We waited in the back as the casket was wheeled in, your white-gloved sons at either side. As they placed the white blanket over the wood, I shed my first tear. I knew this was it. This was the last time I would be in the same room as you. As your song began to play, we walked past the double doors and started down the aisle that you’ve walked numerous times for your family’s weddings, baptisms, communions, confirmations, funerals… Now, we were walking it for you. The sympathy radiated from everyone already in the pews. I looked from face to face all giving us the same sad smile. As I sat in the third aisle, I could see the place you sat at every day: dead front on the left side. The priest pointed that out too. I didn’t cry when he talked. I didn’t cry when I placed a rose on your casket. I cried when the music filled me with memories of you. I cried when your children cried. I cried more than I thought. I had made peace with the idea of you passing, but not with the memories you would leave us all with.
I got my rose back at the cemetery. This was the last place we would leave you. It was the final stop on your journey. I looked around at dead faces. There were no more tears to fall. This was where we took our sadness off of our sleeves and pocketed it to get through the rest of life. You would have liked how many people touched the shiny wood on the casket one last time to hold onto a connection to you.
I didn’t. I knew that you were gone. The casket was your body, but you, you were still in us. You were in every person who came to see you and in every person who thinks of you. You were and still are. Goodbye Gramma. I hope you’re happy.