holding on

My mom arrives Wednesday morning on the red eye flight from Vegas to Atlanta. My grandmother is dying. My mother is coming to spend a few days with her. Before my mother departs for Chattanooga, we gather in my kitchen over honey butter biscuits, grits with cheddar cheese, crispy bacon and scrambled eggs. We look around my house remembering how my grandmother touched every crevice.

She hand sewed the curtains over each window, made the plush pillows on my couch, crafted the breakfast nook cushions, and stitched her way through each moment of comfort in this little blue home that I’ve built. All 906 square feet woven in the fabric of her memory and gentle touch. I dote on those sweet memories when my mom made the drive to Atlanta once a month bringing my grandmother along for another adventure. 

My grandmother in my house in May 2021 taking measurements

Just three years ago, my grandmother was in her right mind, in an able body, able to speak, touch, feel and walk. Now, she’s slowly wilting away, has completely lost her speech, her hearing, ability to type and basic motor skills. 

The speed of her decline reminds me that time is an illusion and no matter how much time you think you have or how much time you’ve spent together, it will never be enough. I give my mom a tight squeeze and send her home with a belly full and assurance that her presence is all my grandmother needs.

I return home to work for just another hour. In honor of my grandmother, I decide to spend the day with people I love and care for most. I text my neighbor and ask if I could walk her 4 month old daughter. We spend an hour walking two miles in the sun, looking at birds chirps, singing lullabies, admiring the sky and the trees. I watch her as she slowly rocks herself to sleep, only to wake up in full laughter after an hour full of wonder as she returns to her mother’s arms. 

I welcome my best friend over late in the evening, way past my bedtime, for a much needed catch up. We talk, laugh and nestle on the couch. We watch our favorite reality tv show, gasp in disbelief and cry our way through it. Both suckers for a good love story. We hug goodbye just after midnight, and text the next morning saying how grateful we are for the spontaneity and simple time together. 

I walk outside the next morning. I let the spring air brush my cheeks and notice the pollen slowly turning my white porch a greenish yellow. I look out near my mailbox and see my great-grandmother's calla lilies starting to bloom. I am terrible at maintaining them. I barely pluck the weeds. I never go out more than twice a year to water them. And yet, they still bloom. And somehow, they sprout even taller than the year before and return after winter. The divine protection and the gift of the matriarchs. 

I call my mom to check in on her. She is with my grandmother and my grandmother is in a deep sleep. I urge my mother to wake her up. I want to sneak a “Hello Nana, I love you.” She looks at me. Her eyes in a fog, not able to recollect or find her place in the conversation. She stares at me with sadness in her eyes, knowing who I am but unable to communicate with me. She turns her head and falls back to sleep. My mom says, “Nana is not the same anymore.” 

I remember all of the “I love you” texts and the “I miss you” that I got from my grandmother just a few weeks ago. I would write back hurriedly, “I love you, Nana.” Not realizing that those would be the last ones I would receive. Not realizing that time is fleeting and that the only thing we can do is seize the moment with such tenacity.

I want to write something different. I want to tell you something. I want to give you more hope to hold on to. I want to write something with more substance. But all I can think about is that my grandmother is dying. 

My Mom, My Grandmother and I (Thanksgiving 2020)

Have Mercy - Eryn Allen Kane