Last Wednesday, before my relatives arrived, I sat alone with my Grandma in her hospital room. Inches apart, yet worlds away. She was born in 1924, in Tennille, Georgia, where the fields stretched wide and injustice clung to the air. She picked cotton under a sky that offered no mercy. And yet, she emerged whole.
She was unbreakable, sharp, strong-willed—because she had to be. I remember summers at her house, watching the rain through the screen door, the hush of a thunderstorm settling over us. She would turn off the television, pace the floor, and sing about Jesus, her voice steady as the rain. She loved me fiercely. That love wrapped around me like a quilt, even when she reached for a switch from her garden to remind me of the lessons I hadn’t yet learned.
When the doctor said she needed surgery, I didn’t understand how slim her chances were. On Thursday, before they wheeled her away, she told me to make sure they took care of her, searching my face for reassurance. I could not save her. I kissed her forehead, squeezed her hand, and told her, I will see you soon. If I had known those were my last words to her, maybe I would have found better ones.
After the surgery, in the quiet of the ICU, I watched her slip away into a place only faith can reach. And then she was gone. Moments later, family members gathered around her body. Some cried uncontrollably like me. Others stood in disbelief. A sobbing relative begged my Grandma’s remains for forgiveness for a past wrong, but it was too late for apologies. All that was left was the insufferable weight of regret.
I wish I had more time. But there will be no more tomorrows with my Grandma. Only the ache of her absence, a presence now turned to memory, following me for the rest of my life.
