FAITH |
I knew the dying was coming— knew her heart struck twelve because I couldn’t sleep, could only gaze out at the hallway, past my door as it creaked on its hinges, the wind outside the open window running its hands over everything in sight. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was my grandmother, running her fingers through my hair. I knew my father would call soon, stranded at the hospital with her, not wanting me or my brother to see death so young. I knew the lawyer would stop by, present us with her will. I didn’t know she’d leave my brother her rocking chair, and me: my favorite breakfast— her recipe for buttered biscuits. Didn’t know my father’s face could glisten with tears or how hard I’d sob, or how my mother’s palm would smooth back my hair me as we watched the coffin descend into the ground, my grandmother making her way into eternal life, as the priest promised. I wish I believed in eternal life. It’s too much work to try to imagine a realm without darkness, no croaking toads, nothing with claws. It’s too hard to believe in her cheering for me up above. But how tempting it is to have faith in her floating like pollen above us, the clouds blurring her angles, her body all tangled up with God’s. |