The week after my grandmother's death is a blur in my memory, a faded, hazy thing punctuated by the hideous beeping of hospital equipment and the sour, stale air of the funeral home.
I remember going into Grandma's closet and helping Mom pick out the dress she would be buried in.
I remember walking through the monument shop, surveying the different styles of tombstone.
I remember getting a worried message from Jason, asking, "Where are you?"
I'd replied simply, stating the bare facts.
My grandmother died on Sunday afternoon.
It was a stroke.
We're planning the funeral.
His message was one of dozens.
Faith asking why I wasn't in school.
Her messages stopped when I told her why.
My boss asking when I was coming back to work.
I told him that I'm not - that job was shitty anyway.
Sierra asking if I wanted her there at the funeral.
I told her no, but thanked her for asking.
Saturday arrived, overcast and grey. I woke to the sound of my mother knocking on my bedroom door.
Let's get this over with.
Listless, I showered, dressing in a staid, black shift that was new to my closet.
If I had my way, I'd burn it afterward.
Meeting Mom in the kitchen, she handed me a slice of buttered toast and a cup of coffee.
We ate in silence, each lost in our own fog.
Finishing quickly, we went to pick up my grandfather, left alone now in the house she had made a home.
Stepping inside, I could feel the palpable coldness and emptiness that my grandmother's absence left behind.
Frustrated sounds came from down the hall.
"Dad?"
"In here - this damned tie-"
Mom set her purse down on the coffee table, heading down the hallway to their bedroom to help my grandfather.
Left alone in the living room, curiosity compelled me as I slowly stepped into the kitchen.
Here.
She'd spent her last conscious moments here, alone, unable to call for help and with no one to call for her.
I should have been here.
The guilt burned, irritating the gnawing wound in my soul-
-the knowledge that she died because of me.
Closing my eyes, I let that pain sit, searing into my bones.
I'd earned it - I deserved it.
It was mine.
Behind me, Mom and my grandfather walked out of the bedroom.
"Ready?" Mom asked.
Swallowing, I nodded.
Inside the church, the funeral director and his assistant were already at work, setting up flower arrangements and placing the various grim paraphernalia of the ceremony. Photos of my grandmother rested on easels: a childhood portrait, her high school senior picture, her wedding.
The last, a portrait taken to commemorate their fortieth wedding anniversary, showed my grandparents, seated and smiling.
If I'd had to guess which one I'd lose first...
The director guided us to sit in the first pew, my mother, then my grandfather, then me. As we sat, he began to read off the cards that had accompanied the flowers; there was one from her former workplace, one from her quilting bee, one from her best friend...
I dazed out, thoughts drifting to the casket sitting open at the rear of the church, where mourners would pay their respects.
I shifted in the pew, queasy with the memory of "the viewing".
In the dim light of the funeral home, my dear, sweet, vibrant grandmother had been put on display, skin waxy and unnatural against the satin lining of her casket.
A shudder rolled through me, followed by the sudden, unshakeable conviction that I wanted to be cremated instead.
The funeral director flipped to the next card, "Robert Griffen, Sr."
My grandfather?
"Robert sent flowers?" The words were out of my mouth before I realized that I'd spoken them.
Mom turned to me, "He called about brunch. When I told him about Mom, he mentioned that he might come to pay his respects."
I nodded, muttering an apology as the director resumed his reading.
Robert's coming?
The kindest thing that I could say about the ceremony is that it was short.
The pastor had barely gotten through his first sentence before Grandpa's shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I rubbed my hand along his back, trying to soothe and keep myself from joining him.
Afterward, we followed the hearse at the head of the funeral procession, finishing off the ordeal by watching as her casket was lowered into the ground.
After she hit her final resting place, the mourners came to share their condolences, all sad eyes and soft voices. I heard the phrase, "I'm so sorry for your loss," so many times, the words lost all meaning.
These people would hate me if they knew...
Glancing up, I caught sight of my paternal grandfather, Robert.
Addressing my mother and I, he said, "I know that this... blow, was incredibly devastating, and I just wanted to say that I'm here if you need anything, anything at all."
Mom's chin trembled as she thanked him.
As the last guest left, we stood, dropping calla lilies - her favorite flower - into the grave as we headed for the car.
On the drive back to the church, I couldn't stop thinking about the grave, about the final stone marker that rested above my grandmother's body.
Brenda Porter - Beloved wife and mother.
An entire lifetime boiled down to six words.
Over sixty years of laughter, tears, hopes and dreams, and at the end, all she got was a hole in the ground.
To say my mood was bleak when we walked downstairs into the church's basement "Fellowship Hall," for the reception was an understatement.
As the church ladies dispensed food and burnt coffee in little Styrofoam cups, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
Looking up, I saw the towering figure of Robert Griffen, Sr.
"How are you holding up?"
In that moment, I didn't have the energy to lie.
"I'm not."
Concern washed over him. Glancing over the room, he seemed to be thinking.
"Do you want to take a walk?"
The prospect of being somewhere, anywhere else was a godsend.
"Sure."