Grandma

The parents came out of Grandma’s room by one by one, bags under their eyes, makeup running down their face, and bright red noses. By that time, I could almost predict what happened. As my mom and dad approached us with their heads down, I prepared myself to hear exactly what I never wanted to hear. “The doctors are turning off the life support machine. She isn’t suffering anymore, and she will be looking over every one of you guys. She said she loves you all so much,” Mom told us while my dad didn’t hide his tears back.

As I helplessly watch my fifteen year old roommate fall to pieces in front of me, I feel everything around me slow to a crawl. Blood pounds my ear drums, I feel the color drain from my cheeks, and my feet take me forward as if they have a mind of their own. I fall to my knees and suddenly everything speeds up again – the pounding in my ear drums intensifies, my hands are trembling but I manage to grasp the side of the bed in an attempt to bring myself close to her. Her face is buried into her sheet. Muffled screaming escapes her as I whisper gentle reassurances in her ear, hoping with everything I have that she can hear me. I know she doesn’t. Even if she does, she can’t make sense of it right now. She’s stuck somewhere else, somewhere she revisits every day of her life and every time she closes her eyes to sleep.

It was another restless Friday afternoon in the small-town nursing home. Overworked nurses buzzed around, itching to start their weekend. “Ann,” a late-stage dementia patient, stared out her bedroom window. Her eyes focused on nothing in particular. As a hospice volunteer, I had been visiting Ann for three months. She spent our time together lost somewhere in her mind where I could never seem to reach her. I reminded Ann who I was and began one of our familiar conversation topics. As usual, she never spoke. As the visit went on, however, something changed. Ann slowly shifted her gaze toward me. I paused. She gently reached for my hand. Her hand felt weak, but her grip was firm. She looked into my eyes, and for a moment her face was clear with recognition. “You’re here,” she said. “…You are here.” She struggled to get out the words as she brought my hand to her face and kissed it. I was so touched I could not speak. For a moment, Ann connected with me. She trusted me. In that moment, I knew I had made the right choice.

Enchanted by her serene radiance, I did not disturb her. Suddenly she began to speak in a whispered hum that was more like a song, unique in a dwelling full of ranting outbursts. She spoke of years long past, swimming in the pond with her sister and dancing in the moonlight. I could picture all in my head, like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me, and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first, I soon realized that, although the woman was talking to herself, she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home I knew that one of my goals in life would always be o help make sure that people were receiving proper treatment, and not merely stuffed away and drugged up.

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

My mother was out of town, so I knew it was not her. I grew afraid of the strange woman in my house, the maroon-colored walls in my bedroom was giving me an ominous feeling, making my room look stained with blood. I went quietly out of my door and down the hallway, knowing that they were arguing in the kitchen by the volume of their voices. I paused in the middle of the hall, unsure whether to continue or to go back to my bedroom. I only decided on the former after I heard a muffled shout and the woman’s voice laughing. This decision was the biggest mistake of my life.

Frantically trying to find her way up the cold, dark stairs she trips over old, dirt covered shoes, dusty ragged dolls who’s dresses have been torn, and moldy glass bottles. As she gets to the the top she pulls trying to open the brown, wooden door, her hope of getting out anytime soon starts to vanish as the flickering light goes off behind her. Never being in the basement for very long , she never noticed how badly it had smelled of insects, and rotting mice. Deliberately she climbs back down the uneven staircase to the cobwebbed entrance.

It’s the time of year where all people are seen running around trying to gather last minute gifts and meals. Everyone does so in cheerful spirits, especially in the Cozly family. Christmas is Grandma Cozly’s favorite time of the year because everyone in the family always makes this family gathering. All the best foods are made and the most laughs are shared on Christmas since everyone is full of cheer and strong in their faith. However, some family members can become slightly assertive trying to get everyone out the door and to church on time.

I wake to a knock at my door. I open my eyes and startle. I'm in an unfamiliar room. Where am I? Suddenly, a million devastating memories flow through my mind at once. There's blood, and tears, and anger. I'm pulled from my mind by my Aunt Julia's voice, "It's happenin' again, ain't it dear?" she asked, her southern drawl more apparent than usual.

The morning wind is as cold as ice, slicing passed my skin while I’m standing against it. It always like today of every year: cloudy, cold and sad. Like the sky is crying with me. I blend down to a tall, sleek, marble stone with the name “Amelia Bennett” written on it. That’s my mother’s name. She died when I was 7 year-old, it’s odd that I have the memories of her very clearly in my brain. Most children probably won’t. But I do, and I when I do, I missed her. I don’t even know what happened on that tragic day. I was blacked out and the next thing I remember is that she’s now laying deep underneath my feet. No one knows what happen, or no one wants to talk about it, not even my aunt. She’s the one that take me in after the accident. Why? Because

The only cruelty greater than death is the nature of the life that precedes it. One’s reflection before nothingness is lost with the person, and will never truly be known nor understood. Katherine Anne Porter’s The Jilting of Granny Weatherall speaks to humanity’s difficulty with accepting the finality of death through the denial of a dying old woman. The story’s themes of memory by emotion and the fault of denial as a solution for grief are underlined by the use of prominent symbols within broken flashbacks, and intrusions by the story’s setting. As Granny Weatherall moves closer to death, her memories turn from details and stories into her reactions and thoughts from the period.

“Your Grandmother died.” My mama said to me sorrowfully after taking a long moment to work up the nerve to say the words, and my first thoughts were, Oh, shit no… Not Grandma Singer. I love Grandma Singer. Then, suddenly I felt as if I had a thousand pound weight bearing down on my chest—as if a force was trying to burrow its way deep inside of me eager to rip out my

As I watched my house crumbled into a million pieces, my legs started to quiver to the point where I could no longer stand on my own two feet. Everything… everything I’d ever loved was inside: my diary, my family photos, my childhood memories. I couldn’t take the pain any more so I began to thrash around the frozen, forlorn floor like a fish on a hook. As my pupils rolled back, flashbacks rolled in. The picture of a child lying in bed while her parents read her a bedtime story replayed in my mind. Images of a primary school girl showing her parents the pictures she drew of them, as a family, wouldn’t fade away. All those memories…now gone. Forever.

Though it was it shameful to admit, she struggled to remember the image of her grandmother. The more she tried to focus on it, the more it slipped away, like losing a dream after you wake up. She could feel herself losing the relationship she once had as a young girl. The sun seemed to dim in the windows and she had to wonder if it was just her imagination.

Touched by fading moonlight, the girl looked pale as a ghost, distressed and sorrowful. Great drops fell from her eyes; the heavy rain clouds in her mind let loose their turbulent nature. She felt the muscle of her chin trembled like a small child, again, she looked toward the window as if the darkness outside could soothe her. However, she tried to keep her sobbing down by biting her lips, afraid the woman would “visit” again. Meanwhile, in the hallway, there was only deadly silence, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness.