for my grandma

Image via WikipediaI hid my tears with sunglasses, a pair of cheap black fake Ray-Bans, that I thought were so cool.

How could she be gone?

The cancer had finally killed her. Her bodily shell lay in the next room, but there was no way I could bear to see it. It wasn't her.

The her I remembered was still in the blue house in that small town, where we used to go on weekends, to have her babysit us while my parents had some quiet time. She would be in the kitchen, cooking up something we hadn't had before, such as creamed peas, or dogfood (round steak in brown gravy over mashed potatoes).

Or perhaps she would be sitting in her brown leather chair, working a crossword puzzle in the TV Guide. Quiet tones from the tv never interrupted our conversations.

I wish I could remember something specific, a bit of advice, that she had given me. I wish I had known her better.

Today, I remember sitting at that conference table, waiting for my dad and aunt to come out of that hospice room--the one I dared not enter. When they finally came, and told me of her last minutes, I felt no relief that her suffering was over. All I could feel was a deep emptiness.

I pushed those feelings so far down inside, to a place where the grief could stay hidden and locked up. It was more than I could bear.

21 years later, I regret the things I did not say--the things I didn't know how to say. I regret my own selfishness. I wish I could hold her lovely aged hands in mine, tell her I love her...

And tell her goodbye.