By A.K. Cotham
For several long months we couldn’t tell if Grandma was coming or going. I don’t think she knew either, but she knew what she didn’t want: an iron maiden of oxygen machines, hooks, and tubes, a landscape of walls with a crooked Jesus.
Together, Dad and I learned lip-reading and eye-telling, shaping stories for her Midwestern accent, slowed over eighty-three years and shuttered by broken vertebrae.
Finally, she had strength enough to whisper.
On a burning July hillside—drooping nosegays, plastic American flags, dirt—we heard her voice again and felt relief and some regret, but no longer fear of silence.
Poignant… and poetic.101 well chosen and powerful words!
Oh. Perfect encapsulation of a person, her life, and your love at the end.
This is gorgeous.
Beautiful!
I love this!
very poetic.
As a grandma, this hit home. Loved it.