Spirited

I found a lifeless bird on the stone path, so light and fragile in my hand. Earlier that morning, I learned that my grandmother would soon be taking her last breath. By nightfall, she passed.

Grandma was my spirit sister. Often she’d call me peculiar, but follow up with, “just like me.” Once she said I was her favorite, favorite, favorite; but I’m sure she made everyone feel that special, as grandmothers tend to do. Her laughter was infectious and she had one of the brightest flames I’ve ever known. She would sing, she would flirt, and she never slowed down. The last time I saw her, she zipped down the nursing home hallway with a walker, frustrated the aides didn’t stop by more often so she could keep moving.

It was naïve of me to assume she would be around longer. I planned to visit her upon returning to Ohio next week, knowing her mental state was in decline, but not understanding the illness’ physical demands. Several weeks earlier I asked my mother if I could be a caretaker with her condition. Understandably that was not possible, so I applied for an activities director position in her wing of the nursing home, in hopes that might open a door for me to be nearby. Still, no luck.

I suppose I could be thankful for the preservation of untainted memories. Only once did I watch her slip into delirium, but she was gentle through her confusion; wanting to check the mailbox at a farmhouse which no longer existed. Earlier she had asked me, “what would you have done if I couldn’t recognize you?” The thought worried her more than it worried me. I just wanted her to be free and flying once again. I pray now she can do just that.