Death came quitely for my Grandmother. She died in his arms, the man who’d loved her ever since rent was 10 cents a month and trains were the best way of transportation. She said she didn’t feel well and lied down in the embrace of love, and passed away sweatly, the way we all wish we would.
I couldn’t go to her funeral, January is a bad time to travel, the roads icy and mountain passes all covered in snow. Even if I could have made it though, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the trip. There are baby diapers to buy and food. That is all we can afford now.
I imagine her funeral to have been lovely. I know she is hapy now and wandering and camping in Heaven’s mountains with her son, my father, who died when I was only a neive seventeen. I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral either. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe, maybe not. On better days I think not. But then there are those days that sneak up on me and pound me with my own shortcomings.
I pray for my Grandpa. She was the love of his life. What will he do now, in that big house where so much laughter has broken out, now silent with the echo of death?
All this and my little brother has just been redeployed to war. He couldnt make it to the funeral either.
Sometimes, I just break out in tears for no reason. I pray to the Universe, please dont let the next awkward and sorrowfull call I receive be about him.