I remember how she'd smile at me -- a warm and wrinkled smile. I
may have been scared of her when I was very young, but soon I
realized that she was safe. She was home. She told me often of her
brother, of reciting poems, and of my father -- as though he were still a
boy. At ninety-nine, she died. She left behind a memory of a woman
who was strong and who was beautiful and who was loved. I didn't
cry for her when she left us. I am now on the verge of losing another.
One as charming and beautiful and mysterious. One morning soon,
she will not wake up. I am not ready for her to go. Nobody is ready.
We need strength, but we do not have the time to become strong.
Death is a strange and unwelcome visitor. I am scared for myself, for
my grandmother, whose mother is moments from the end. I feel
something for those who die -- a numbness that is difficult to describe,
but which utterly consumes me at time. Hold my hand, God; I can't do
this alone.

1.21.00

01/21/2000

Posted on 02/20/2009
Copyright © 2024 Brian Fuchs