Grandmother, Interrupted at 98

Grandmother, Interrupted at 98

Grandma
did you feel eternity
plucking at your sleeve?

It started with forgetting
–not where you were
but when you were.

And you laughed sheepishly
and said
“You’ll have to forgive,
I forget things sometimes.”

And every
not-frequent-enough visit
pointed us to the end.

At first you fretted
about dressing for dinner
that you no longer ate
with friends no longer
there.

Later your room became a train,
bound for Chicago,
the grandson you no longer recognized
was a fascinating
fellow traveler.

In our next visit
you proudly related
the exploits of those college-aged sons,
young bucks who made you so proud…
men nearing retirement age
and fighting their own
battles with eternity.

Later still you spoke of
the love of your life
cherishing you,
his fresh-faced bride.
You spoke hopefully
of the
child
carried joyfully.

(And my throat nearly closed
in pain
knowing the end of
your story-already-lived,
knowing that first baby died
before drawing breath.)

And then
you were a tiny girl
hiding beneath the covers
with your brothers,
giggling at the magic
of your
make-believe world.

And as you traveled back
in time
we all

got lost

with forgetting,
generation by generation,
those who loved you.

On our last visit,
we stood around your bed.
I, grafted into the family tree
years past your remembering,
I was a stranger.
Your grandson,
a fine young man
whose voice sounded
oddly, warmly familiar,
(re)introduced you to
your four great-grandsons.

Confused,
you still graciously
complimented the family:
“What a great big wonderful…
great-big-wonderful….
great-big-wonderfulgreatbigwonderful…”
and your voice lost its definition
as eternity
showed in the spaces
between your words.
With a startle,
you firmly finished,
“–What a great big wonderful…
DOG!”

You coughed
and choked and coughed
and coughed,
pleading,
“Oh, my God,
My gracious, merciful God,
HELP ME.
Help me BREATHE!”

And I looked over my shoulder
because you saw
Someone
I could not.

And these four fine boys,
each of them held lovingly
on your lap
when they were newly born,
each almost-grown boy
patted your fragile hands
and kissed
your soft cheek
and said
good-bye.

At the last,
your grandson
simply sat
and watched you sleep
and loved you
and remembered
lunch-hour visits
stolen out of the school-day
to share a bowl
of ice cream
with his grandma,
remembered what you
could not.
You didn’t wake;
he simply watched you sleep.

And finally
you just
never woke up
and
on the day after Christmas
(always mindful of the importance of holidays)
walked into eternity.

Even at 98
it was an interruption.

Did you feel eternity tugging
at your sleep?
tapping you on the shoulder?
beckoning?

Although stayed for nearly a century
eternity always lurked,
plucking at your sleeve,
tangling its fingers in your hair,
the aroma of forever,
tickling your senses

and ours too.

Some days we catch
a glimpse
of that infinity
and I think I see you
waiting

for Easter morning.

Maranatha,
come Lord Jesus.