When she died, there was no smiling. Not the doctors who exhausted themselves to keep her alive, nor her doting husband who would soon fall into the dark pit of alcoholism. Especially not my dad, her only son, when he got the news that his 66 year old mother had died from just a cluster of cells- a tumor on her brain. My mother, also, did not smile as she walked up the stairs and told me it was time to leave.

“Dad is early!” I huffed, “I don’t want to leave yet!” I could feel annoyance with him growing in my chest. It was spring break, and I wanted to spend every last second of it with my mom. She did not respond.

I added lightheartedly, “Tell them I ran away so I can just stay here with you!” However, there was no sense of humor in my mother’s eyes as I spoke; her lips did not even twitch into a small smile.

“Your dad has something to tell you,” she responded simply. We hugged, and I got a kiss on the cheek, but my stomach began to churn with dread. Only a week beforehand my parents had gotten into an explosive argument about the way my dad’s girlfriend was treating me. Surely, I thought, I’m in trouble for starting drama. As I crept down the stairs, biting my lip from the gnawing apprehension, I saw my dad standing at the door in a pink suit; his eyes were the same color as the fabric on his chest, and a damp line ran down his cheeks.

“Dad?” I whispered, “What’s wrong?” My heart was beating wildly. I’d never seen my father cry before. He sniffled and raised his puffy eyes to meet mine. At first, he couldn’t manage to
even speak.

“Grammy died,” he finally choked out. Everything felt light around me when the two words were fully absorbed in my brain. It was as if the wind was knocked from my body and I was floating aimlessly in space. It didn’t feel real. 

“Come on, let’s get going. I saved some tears to cry with you.”

We walked out to the car in silence, and never before had the opening of a door sounded so deafening. I slid in the passenger seat and watched as my father began to cry hard; it made me sick. Why would you save your tears for me? I thought desperately, angrily. Who would ever want to see their parents cry? I tried not to look as pained whimpers escaped his mouth. The engine purred on and we drove in complete silence; the only thing I heard was my father choking on his own sobs.

“It’s okay to cry,” he told me softly while I watched the blur of cars pass by. “We can cry together.” His words made me feel dizzyingly nauseous. I felt small in my own skin —I wanted nothing more than to be alone in that moment. Still, despite how hard I willed myself to cry, the tears would not come out; everything was numb.

“We’re going to stay the night at your Aunt’s,” he continued when I did not respond. “I brought your black dress with the laces. You can wear that to the funeral.”  I opened my mouth to speak but was too scared to ask. How did she die? 

“Wh-when. When did this happen?” I squeaked out.

“Two days ago.” I dug my nails in my palm.

“How?” I refused to meet his fleeting gaze as I spoke.
He sighed.

“Grammy was very sick,” my dad explained, “she didn’t want you to see her like that. She wanted your last memory to be of her when she was healthy. It was a brain tumor, though. She knew she was going to die.” That is when I finally cried. 

My own hot breath hit my face as I sobbed into the damp pillow. It was wet and humid, but I was too ashamed to pull myself away. The room of my aunt’s house was unfamiliar, solemnly quiet, and the only source of light came from behind the frail windows. If you looked hard enough you could see the Mississippi River underneath pale moonlight.

I felt alone, but worst of all, I felt guilty. I had noticed the way my dad looked at me when I did not cry a lot, but none of it mattered. Not my tears, not him, and not even the girlfriend I didn’t like. I was choked up with words I wanted desperately to tear from time. 

“I looked through my dad’s phone!” I told my friend defiantly. We were in school and I was imprudent that day. Bitter with an immature emotional control that kids so often lack. “I read his texts and my grandma’s sick.” I didn’t know. I couldn’t comprehend the severity. 

“Well, I don’t even like her. I don’t care if she dies. At her funeral I bet I won’t cry, I won’t miss her.” 

Hearing my own words reverberate in my mind, said only mere months ago, sent me into another wave of open-mouth crying. I’m awful. I don’t even deserve to grieve for her. How could I have said those things? If I could trade in my ignorant words for her life I would have in a second. But now she was gone, and the last words I ever said about her strangled me like a noose of condemnation. It felt like her legacy was looming over me, swallowing me in my own shame. 

The very last time I saw her was a Christmas party. I tried to bury the memory and the contempt that still remained.

“You look big in that dress.” She was so refined as she always had been, but she spoke as though she was miles above me. I was only 10, self-conscious, struggling with my body image. Her words cut me like a knife. I wanted to hide from those sharp blue eyes that seemed to stab me with judgment. 

“Can’t you suck in your stomach to hide your belly?” 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into my pillow, digging my hands into the corners. “I’m so, so, so sorry.” She wanted your last memory to be of when she was healthy. Why couldn’t she have let me say goodbye? Maybe I would have understood the consequences — maybe I would have forgiven her — maybe I wouldn’t have said the things I did. 

“Please bring her back. I’m sorry!” I wondered if she could hear me. I wondered if she knew how deeply I regretted the things I said. 

Her funeral was held in a tan-bricked gothic-style cathedral. The skies were overcast and the promise of rain seemed to hang in the air, weighing down upon us. As I walked into the darkened room, people passed me by uttering their condolences. Even though the arched walls of the church towered vastly above me, I felt trapped by the sympathetic eyes of distant relatives and strangers. My father led me to the front row of the pew; the casket sat elevated directly in front of me, shadowed by the somber lighting.

“Will it be an open casket?” I asked my father. The thought of seeing her lifeless face made me feel nauseous.

“No, she donated her organs to science,” he responded. Of course she did, she was a doctor. Somehow that was even worse though; I could imagine the macabre scene of her hollow corpse, scooped out and empty, like a void. I tried to shake the disturbing image from my head and wait for the ceremony to begin.

As people walked up to speak on her life, contrary to my egregious declaration, I cried. I cried hard. My father did too, but I faintly noticed over the pain in my chest. It seemed whenever the tears began to dissipate and my breathing would relax, another wave of heartache deluged me and the weeping continued.

One melancholy song seemed to fade into the next, but as the strumming of a guitar began, I focused in on the music. It was quite jarring to hear and I perked up my head, which had been drooping during a moment of silence.

“The Rolling Stones,” my father whispered, leaning toward me. “It was her favorite band. She wanted to play them at her funeral.” I took in the lyrics, the smooth voice of the singer, and the melodic instruments. Before her death, she had listened to this very song. Separated by time, even life and death itself, I listened alongside my grandmother. Despite the mistakes I made in the past, and my turbulent feelings towards her, I couldn’t take back the things I said. However, in the present, I could mourn and honor the things she loved. I still had our good memories and her love for me, and in that way, I could keep her alive and find my peace. 

Although in that moment my guilt did not disappear, I began to find some forgiveness for myself. As the song came to an end, I felt closer to my grandmother than I ever had, and realized that sooner or later you have to find absolution for your own wrongdoings and those of others. We all make mistakes, but that does not define who we are. My grandmother will live in my mind as a person who loved me dearly but also had faults. As for me? Well, I’m sure I’ll say one thousand or more things I regret, but punishing myself will get me nowhere. Guilt is a helpful tool for growing to your potential as a compassionate and wise soul.