Francis died last week. She was a friend of my grandmothers, and I never saw her, I never knew her, but I depended on her. I depended on her to always come up in the conversation. Like the weather, or rapidly decreasing cost of gas. To always be alive.
There are facts about this life. Oxygen keeps your breathing, and he will break your heart. We eat pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving and sometimes when you take a bite there are flakes of eggshells inside. But it tastes better than the guilt of spitting out my aunts cranberry dip. I smoke menthols because the taste of reminds me of a girl I miss, and my mother cannot sustain the lemon tree in the backyard. If there is not an ugly shade paint on the wall, then there is an ugly pattern of wallpaper. And Francis will always be alive.
But she went. She was 102 when she went.
She was 102, and weak, and lying in bed all the time but my grandma talked about her like she was out and about. Wearing red lipstick.
She was 102, and weak, and sleeping with death in her arms, but she was so happy.
My grandma said, "Well she lived it to the fullest."
But there is no consolation, and maybe it's selfish but when I hear those words I am so scared I am so scared I am so scared to be alone.
My mother asked, "Was it quick?"
And my grandmother said, "Oh, yeah, yeah, she slept for three days before."
And my mother closed her eyes, like she was dreaming. Like going softly like that was Godsent.
"May we all go the same way."
