boiled meat

A couple of months ago my grandmother, 76, died of cancer. What a cliche -- everyone knows someone who has died of cancer. It's sad. And the only "good" thing that came out of watching her die was the way she showed us love and dignity even in her most desparate and humiliating moments. Talk about grace. I had to write something for her funeral and so at 5 AM the morning of her burial I wrote and rememberred:

Before she returned to God’s warm embrace,
Before the trees shed their leaves so furiously they looked like imposters of themselves,
so drawn and thin, so fragile,

Before that beautiful day in November when her breathing
sounded like wind -- irregular, deep, pausing,

Before her family circled her frame, held her hands,
stroked her hair, caressed her feet,

Before any tears fell,

Before she instructed her family in the arts of strength, dignity
and patience by accepting help graciously and lovingly
even when they were sometimes awkward, afraid, unsure
of what their own hands were doing,

Before the soft washcloths she knitted were used to bathe
her great-grandchildren and wipe the day’s imprint from their bodies,

Before she held those great-grandchildren in her arms and smiled,
playfully tugging at their “foofers”,

Before family and friends surrounded a table weighted down by sugar cookies
and peanut brittle and ate until their stomachs bulged with excess
and even then she shoved tins stuffed with sweets into their hands
as they hugged her goodbye,

Before she wrapped her grandchildren in hand-made Afghans,

Before her two careers took time from the one thing she enjoyed more than any other --
being a mom,

Before she made her daughters feel smart about being mothers themselves,

Before her shaking hands sliced grapefruit and poured milk for her own child stricken
with cancer, she said a prayer and wiped her eyes dry,
then took her place bedside,

Before her youngest daughter pleaded to keep the flower dress that she made for her
even though it was threadbare and two-sizes too small,

Before she rushed after her children searching the nooks and crannies
of her house for their Sunday veils,

Before she married and settled into a new life,

Before she was a child herself where she watched her older sister fall
out of her father’s car, and calmly answered his “where’s your sister”
with a simple “she left”,

Before she learned the meanings of sharing and patience and family
from her parents and five siblings,

Before she first nestled into her own mother’s arms, a new year’s baby in 1929,

Before any of that

She trembled with the expectancy of life,
nervous about leaving God’s warm embrace,
but she knew she would too soon be home,
back in His loving arms.

That was one of the hardest things I ever had to write.

After the funeral and the food and everything I found myself talking with my aunt. She was still visibly shaken by watching her mother die (we we all there -- her 4 daughters, her 3 sisters, her brother, and two of her grandkids). I was in my own little space. I tried to tell her by the time grandma passed, she was already gone -- her spirit was gone -- and it was just the wheezing shell left. My mind lept to an experience while in college -- I was living in Louisiana and working on a farm in excange for rent in a small shack. One of my daily duties was to feed all the animals. One Saturday morning I was passing through the pasture toward the barn when I saw one of the horses in the ravine and it was in the last moments of life. I watched it writhe, the purple tongue lolled out, and it died. And then, before I knew what I was saying, I told her about that experience. My poor aunt just looked at me increduously and wiped tears from her eyes. I immediately wanted to take it back. Yes, it was one of those dumb ass things you say at precisely the wrong moment and you just hang your head and hope to hell everyone forgets it because you never will.