If you need me, I'm lost in the past.
I am in Saturday, when I visited her.
Just her head protruded from the bundled blankets.
The twisting and shrinking of her body.
The excess skin.
The tube in her nose. Her struggle for breath.
She resembled a feeble preemie.
"Hi grandma," I whispered.
The only thing that looked like her were her eyes. I am lost in them. They fix on me. I'm at the foot of the bed. I have to look away or she'll see. She's dying.
I'm rubbing her feet. She knows I'm there. She feels me.
God, thank you for this. My last memory. It's bitter and sweet. It hurts and it heals.
Time doesn't stop. I kiss her head goodbye. It's burning up.
I wish her peace.
She died last night.
Dad said she's on her journey. But I think she's found her final place. She's in the arms of my grandfather, who died 26 years before her. They are dancing like a couple at their wedding reception.
I think she's found peace. Now I just need to make mine.