My grandmother died about three weeks ago. It wasn’t sudden, she had been ailing for quite some time, but we still weren’t ready. I don’t think anyone but her was really ready to see her go. I haven’t cried yet.
I’m told that she related talking to her own mother at the end, telling my aunt, her caretaker, that her mother was coming to take her home. In the end she said her goodbyes, calling each of her children to her, the ones that were able, for the comfort of a hug, or just to have them near. I guess when she left us, it was with a measure of peace. I can take some comfort in that.
But today is her funeral. Today it all becomes real. She will never teach me to make bambulla (cassava bread), or how to use a yabba (an indigenous clay pot) to create the flavors she was able to. She just won’t be there. You know?
And I’m sitting here, dreading the service, dreading seeing her all layed out, seeing her return to the earth. I’m terrified.