DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee

Again, I write of things beyond my control. My grandmother passed away this morning. I know in my heart of hearts that she is whole and new, happily seated with those who went before. But my heart still aches. They've consoled Willa by telling her that Grandma's with Jesus and my father, a man Willa never knew but whose face and name is one created from the memories of others. While I'm not sure that Willa realizes Grandma is never coming back, her childlike faith and ready acceptance of Jesus and a heaven where my father waits with open arms for his mother mark her as a role model for us others, more jaded ones. It's the very image depicted to Willa that I've embraced and etched into my image of heaven, a place full of colors and wonders not yet named.

The last time I saw my grandmother was September 11; her birthday and anniversary. I did not want to visit her in the hospital because I did not want my last memory of her to be what she became after her body failed her. Fault me if you will, but I will forever remember my grandmother the way she looked as she opened presents, picked on my grandfather, and showed pictures sent to her as a present from an old friend. These pictures were of her before she was a grandmother, a mother, and a wife. Young & beautiful, she'd joked about how one could never tell they were the same person. But you could. In the glint of her eyes, a glint that black & white photography couldn't conceal. And so the last memory of my grandmother will be of her standing at the carport, blowing kisses and waving as we drove home after our birthday/anniversary visit.

"For what is it to die, but to stand in the sun and melt into the wind? And when the Earth has claimed our limbs, then we shall truly dance." - Kahil Gibran

Dance, Grandma, Dance.