On a soggy yet freezing day in March, we went to the nursing home to visit my Grandma.  She had been there in the nursing home for a while and wasn’t feeling well.  At first, I thought this would be just an average trip; after all, we had seen her on numerous occasions the last couple of months at the nursing home already.  We walked into the dimly lit room that smelled like a sterile hospital.  My grandmother, covered by a single blanket, lay in a reclined position in the hospital bed.  The room was silent except for her shallow labored breathing.  In an attempt to comfort her, I stood by the side of her bed and cupped my hands into her lukewarm hands.  It was at that point that reality struck me in the gut like a train: she was dying.

I held her wrinkled yet still soft pale hands, while thinking, ‘Don’t cry.’  Then I just sat next to her in a nearby chair.  It seemed no matter how hard I attempted not to cry, the tears would still seep through like rain dripping from a leaking roof and stream down my drooping face.  Each of my family took turns at her bedside and each one held her hand.  Her church’s pastor came by and gave a quick prayer; I continued to cry.  Later, my other grandparents dropped by the nursing home and picked me up then dropped me off at their house.

Once I arrived at their house, I merely sat in one of their chairs in the living room and just pondered everything that had happen so far.  ‘I can’t believe she’s not going to live long.’  I had finally just stopped crying though my cheeks and eyes were still pinkish red and raw.  Then my mom arrived.  I already knew what she was going to tell me; she looked sad, and her eyes were also pink and raw from crying.  She walked straight towards me and informed me of the news.  With her voice nearly cracking, she told me, “She’s in a better place now.”  With just those seven words, I hugged her silky coat with all my strength and my tears returned this time.  I didn’t bother to try and hold them back; I cried so much my sadness flooded the room.  I loved her.  I loved my Grandma.  My mom told me, “It’s okay to cry.”

A couple of days later, I visited my grandmother at the funeral home, which was filled with the sweet aroma of flowers.  In the well-polished carbon black casket, she rested in her deep slumber.  Her skin lacked any trace of warmth that she once had.  Her skin was pale yet still had that lively soft touch even though she was long gone.  My family and I glanced at her slumbering body for a couple of minutes.  As my father’s mother lay in her casket, I watched my dad shed a few lonely tears.  We remained at the funeral home for hours, shaking hands and chatting quietly to friends and relatives who had come to pay their respects telling me, “I’m sorry for your lost.”  For me, those were the longest hours I had ever experienced.

The next day, we attended church to pay our final respects before we buried her.  The service happened to be quick and to the point.  The entire time I was trying to avoid shedding as many tears as possible.  After the service, we drove to the local cemetery, which was surrounded in crisp white snow.  After the pastor shared a final prayer, I gently touched her smooth coffin and silently whispered, ‘Goodbye.’  As we trudged back to our car, I told myself, “She is in a better place now.”