the last day of margaret k.

they say your hearing is the last thing to go.

on tuesday at 3:27 pm the girl on the other side of the wall said something about her nails--which reminded me that i was going to see grandma that night and file her nails, maybe even buff them if she was open to that and not agitated. silence fell in my corner of the office. the coworker behind me was taking a payroll, and in the silence, she pretty much shouted to the person on the phone: MARGARET.

and i had this weird feeling--like either i was hearing my grandma's name to remind me that she was needing my thoughts, or i was hearing my grandma's name because someone was calling her into the house for dinner.

i tried to leave work early, but i just couldn't seem to get out. at 520, on my way out the door, i checked my cell, and found the message: grandma had passed earlier, around 3:30.

it's strange the way these things happen. i'm glad she's gone because i know what kind of agony she was in, trying to get away from her own body, trying to escape from the pain, and finding no safe corners. i know what agony my father and his brothers were in, watching her suffer and trying to plan a funeral for someone who was still struggling for breath.

monday and tuesday she was calm. the hospice staff stopped moving her to her side, which made her more and more agitated despite any morphine she was administered. it was as if she knew, and just settled down to wait for the right train to come on by.

i'm sad she's gone because she is my grandma. sad to see my family standing in that small room, weeping silently.

i drove up there anyway, on tuesday. cried a little on the way there. found a box of kleenex in the car. when i got to the room everyone was very grateful for the kleenex because the stuff in the room was, as my uncle tim put it, like a fine grade of sandpaper. the home had put out coffee, pink lemonade that was like liquid sugar, and some cider that was a step down from the lemonade. they had a plate of cookies that i figured no one would touch, but eventually people ate a little off the plate. it was around 615 or so and i'm sure no one had eaten dinner.

her body was in the bed; a lot less of her body than she used to command. legs thinner than my wrist, her mouth open and empty without dentures. when she first went from the assisted living facility to the hospice, my parents searched her room for her cane and her lower denture set, to no avail. the staff searched a few other rooms that grandma frequented, but they had no luck either.

without life in her face, her wrinkles were gone. she looked like a young child, head full of hair, sleeping with her mouth hanging open. the covers were pulled up to her chin, white sheets and cornflower-blue blanket. across the pillow on one side of her head, someone had laid a blue rosary. she looked so peaceful. i commented that this was the most peaceful i had ever seen her. the perpetual furrow in her brow--the one that she got when she was annoyed, which lately had been often--was smoothed out by some great hand.

it reminded me of making the bed, and smoothing the sheets so the comforter lies flat.

everyone was weeping when i walked in; tim's family had just arrived, and my uncle bob and aunt, roz. it was like a strange reception line, walking around in my bulky navy pea-coat, holding my gray box of tissues and trying to hug people with both arms. i put the tissues down, shed layers, found a seat. there were a total of this many people in the room: dad, bob and roz, tim and anita and their girls, kelsey and ericka, myself, my sister sara, my uncle dan. eventually my mother arrived, but that was not for a while as she had a longer drive.

the room got quiet. and then in the manner of my family, we chatted about things remembered, and the laughter was contagious. i doubt grandma could have asked for a better tribute than that--tears followed by giggles and guffaws, remembering her when she was vibrant and alive. one of their favorites was how she didn't always know who was visiting her, but she could sing along with any old song on the radio. the boys remembered her writing down songs to sing around the campfire, asking my grandpa if he could play it on his harmonica. grandpa used to say, "let me see if i can find it, margo."

the one they laughed about was "heart of my heart," which grandma had accidentally penned, "heart of my deart." the boys, being contrary, sang it as she wrote it: "heart of my deeeee-rt."

after a few hours, the crowd dispersed. the call was made to come and take her body away. she's going to be cremated, which is kind of against the "rules" in catholocism. but grandpa was cremated too; they were just such practical people that i doubt they'd want to take up more space than needed.

they talked about her obituary, what it should say. grandma's middle name wasn't katherine or kate or anything--it is just "k". they had to discuss how her father's name, hugh, was spelled. still unsettling when tim sent out the email of the obit on friday.

uncle dan found a red oak urn for her ashes--fitting, as my grandfather's nickname was the Red Oak. tomorrow we clean out her room; they've gone through it already, a few times, since she was moved. apparently the facility will do a silent auction on items in her room, instead of the family lugging it all out, and her clothing can be donated. dad said that we should stop and see if there is anything we would like.

the only thing i want is that perfume bottle, empty or full. that is all.

i drove home; had to stop to pick up a perscription on the way. when i came out of the store, it was snowing--light and airy snow, silver in the streetlight. i stood there for a minute before getting into my car, feeling like a benediction had been passed on my self, that my grandma was now saying good bye, in a way i would comprehend. none of those flakes stayed on the ground. and in the end, i'm sure i'm reading into some natural phenomenon and giving it personality when i needed it, and that the falling snow was not really a gift from grandma.

then again, i'm not sure i could call myself a poet if i didn't read emotions and signs everywhere i turned. (;

next thursday is the family memorial service. friday is the actual funeral, at which i'll be reading the intercessions.

yesterday we drove up to my sister's house, to have birthday gathering for my mom, who turned 62. today we meet again at her house for thanksgiving dinner. i have food to prepare--green bean casserole, banana cream pie, stuffing. this year will be disjointed, because of the new setting and the empty chair.

but i have so very much for which to be thankful that the darker aspects of this year should be in shadow.

i'm thankful for my relationship with dan, who i thought i had lost.
i'm thankful for the opportunity to find myself in therapy--who knew i was missing? (;
i'm thankful for having known the woman i called grandma, thankful for the lessons she taught me and the time i spent with her, and thankful that her passing was peaceful.
i'm thankful for my uncle, jed, because he has taught me that when the odds are against you, you can still smile and persevere and keep going.
i'm thankful that my parents are retired.
i'm thankful that i have this opportunity to write, in the warmth of my own home, from under a green fleece blanket, with two cats curled up in my living room.
i'm thankful that the sky is peerless blue, and the sun is rising, and it's windy and chilly outside.

right now, after this year of unexpected doors closing, i am thankful for the ones that have opened. i know that the things for which i am thankful are all things that have caused me grief--if i did not know my grandmother, i would not grieve. etc.

henry is looking for leaves outside the patio door. they've been swirling around dry for the past few days. last week, he kept butting his head up against the glass. this week he just sits and watches leaves and sparrows swirl in and out, like breath.