Love and Some Verses

   My last remaining grandparent- my father's mother- died Friday night. She was in the hospital for a week beforehand, drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting restlessly, occasionally crying out to ask where her husband was- my grandfather, who died two weeks before my ninth birthday-  and when he was going to arrive. I spent that final week with her exclusively through secondhand accounts, trying to limit my intake of updates, forcing out the impulse to live vicariously through my father, the oldest of her six children, who wandered through the house, quiet and misty-eyed, physically present, but mentally a million other places. I found myself wondering every time he entered a room: Where is he now? Is he three, and screaming, demanding her attention? Is he eleven, ice skating in the backyard, waiting for a cup of hot chocolate? Maybe he's sixteen and sliding out from underneath the body of a car, begrudgingly fulfilling her request that he clean himself up before dinner. Hoping he wasn't in the hospital with her, I silently begged his memory to stretch out beyond the immediate, to lull him back to the comfort of her now-absent maternity.
   I couldn't stomach the wake. I walked into the funeral home silently repeating my mantra of detachment and distance from reality. I looked through the pictures, noticing I wasn't in any. I shrugged it off, rolled my eyes at the exclusion; it meant nothing. Pulling my jacket closed, I entered the room full of family members. I noticed my father at the casket, and felt my throat begin to close. I made eye contact with a cousin, felt my eyes begin to fill and gasped "I just need...I'll..." and stumbled backwards out the door where I pressed myself against the wall and felt my composure crumble. I raced to the car and fell apart.
   The funeral was easier. I concentrated on keeping my composure, and managed to, aside from a few stray tears. Eagle's Wings gets me every time, you guys! I can't help myself.
   It was the first time I'd been to church in over two years. I examined the pews and the altar with a sense of nostalgia, infused with a mild amusement. Mass seemed kitsch in a way I had never noticed before.
   Religion is too big. My mind has no room for it. I have a distinct aversion to anything that could swallow me whole like that.
   My grandmother was lovely and sweet. I won't say a single prayer, but I'll keep her wrapped up tight in my heart forever. That's all I've got. It's the best I can do.