My Grandmother looked at me. Her eyes shone in her pale face, searching for the comfort of recognition. I know she saw the silhouetted figure and heard the voice of a woman holding her hand. My hand. I could tell I was still familiar to her, but somehow difficult for her to trust between the wakeful dreams and emerging fears of her passage into death.
Coaxed into relaxation, enough for her eyes to close a moment, only to re-open, flutter and realise again that death had not yet come.
Minutes passed; hours went by. For her a hundred years had disappeared leaving her alone on the shore; waiting for the tide to take her tired body. To allow her soul to leave. To find her husband, her baby son, her young daughter, sisters, brothers. Her friends.
She said that God, to whom she had prayed for a century, had forgotten to call her. Or perhaps an unforgiven sin would draw her to hell. She floated. Here on earth, between dimensions.
I left as evening approached. My aunt and uncle were on their way.
Alone, tears wet my face. Childhood memories brought warmth and comfort. The wish that my mother was still alive resurfaced. The pain of her absence was freshened.
Between our shift change, my grandmother left us.
She left alone.
“As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith.” The Holy Bible: 2 Timothy Ch 4, verses 6 & 7
Burnside Writers Group 