Grandma Miller

My grandma died this morning.

I'm weary. It's been too much today. I've seen my grandfather kiss my grandmother's cold lips as he cried hot tears and tenderly told her goodbye in a soft voice. I've touched my grandmother's soft hands for the last time and pried her diamond engagement ring off her arthritic finger. I've smelled the sulphuric smell of well water at the lake as I mopped up Grandpa's kitchen floor in an effort to do something (and to take care of that nasty lemonade spill due to my clumsy nerves). I've tasted the deviled eggs which seem to be ubiquitous after a death in the rural midwest, thanks to the countless God-fearing Christian women who make it their mission to feed the bereaved.

My heart hurts tonight.

This is the second grandmother I've lost in six months. The odds aren't looking good for grandmothers in my family this year.

So much to think about...and remember...and hold close tonight. But for now, a tepid bath (it's still 86 freakin' degrees out at almost 10 p.m.) and a soft bed. Maybe Grandma will whisper in my ear the words I need to speak on Thursday.