My 94 year old grandmother passed away a couple of weeks ago. 94 year old grandmothers will do that from time to time. I work in health care with the elderly, so seeing someone pass is nothing new to me. None the less, it felt like an honor to be there with her when she left this old place behind.
It's strange to watch someone go. Not that it's a sad thing altogether. Most of the time it's better that they pass into something more beautiful and permanent. Still, at work, we watch them go (six in a week this month) and we're taken off guard every time.
"Did you hear Mrs. So and So died?"
"Why! It's hamburger day tomorrow."
But I don't eat meat and most of their food is pureed so hamburger day isn't really all it's cracked up to be. Still we wonder if we could have convinced them to stick it out one more afternoon. After all, they play Wii games on Wednesday.
But what I remember most about my grandmother was that she was the first everyday ordinary person that I knew who made up stories. As a child, I thought book just were. It didn't occur to me that anyone with a bit of talent and a ton of determination could write one. I don't think she every published anything, but I still remember the bedtime stories she told us. All of them made up from somewhere inside her head and her heart...that elusive thing called imagination.
Turns out, I have one too.
Thanks, Grandma. And I'm sure they have hamburger day in heaven.