Her Hands

I stayed with her every night the week before she died. Her and I. Grandmother and Grandaughter. I would sit there and think about all the funny and interesting things she use to say to me. I also sat there and my brain would bring me back to when I was little. Running up and down all those stairs in that big house. No matter how quiet I was you could still hear every creak. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch with a couple of cousins. We would blow bubbles in our milk until it overflowed, much to my grandmother's dismay. Going to the third floor going through all the different boxes, drawers, and closets. Trying on all those beautiful old dresses and of course the great jewelry. She would take me on the city bus and tried to show me that shopping at the Salvation Army is cool. Playing hide-and-go-seek was a lot of fun because there were so many different places to hide.

I sat there holding onto her hands. Every few minutes I would burst into tears(like I am doing right now as I am writing). I am usually not one to cry in public. It seemed every time I would cry I could feel her squeezing my hand. Except for the night before she died. That was the night that I stayed over. I could hear her breathing becoming smaller. It started to remind me of a newborn baby. Small and quick little whispered movements. I would ask her to squeeze my hand and nothing. I became angry at myself because I had not visited her in a long time.