Time stood still that day. A Polaroid moment I carry in the photo album of my mind, tucked between pages of dirty bare feet, watermelon seed spitting contests, fresh apple pie, government cheese, and lightning bug night lights.
My sister and I were six and eight, and it had already been a hard year at our house. The baby died of SIDS. Mom and Dad’s marriage was unraveling. And then Grammy’s heart stopped beating at our kitchen table while we told her jokes.
They must have been good ones. Her lips curved in that smile, wild white hair surrounded her bright pink cheeks like a halo, eyes squeezed shut as she clutched my sister’s hand and bent over it laughing so hard she barely made a sound.
She didn’t come back up.
“Mama?” Mom froze at the other end of the table, her voice catching in a way we’d never heard before. Small and chilling, like a little girl just realizing she’s lost. “Mama?” She repeated, a flutter in her voice now, as she dropped her paring knife and rushed over, the potatoes or apples she was preparing long forgotten.
Grammy didn’t answer.
It’s all a blur from there. We tried to be good. We did what we were told, standing aside as someone fetched a cushion from the green tweed couch, trying to hold our tongues while someone lowered her to the ground and called the ambulance. But the questions tumbled out of us.
“Is she okay?”
“Is Grammy okay?”
The only reply was Mr. Rogers on TV. My sister and I stood together in the living room. Transfixed by the strangers swarming in our kitchen like bees trying to save the sweetness of the old woman our mama called mama.
She died that day. Left us with hearts full of childish grief and secret wonder that maybe if we hadn’t been so damn silly, maybe she might not have laughed so hard that her heart gave out.
People told us it was her time. That it wasn’t our fault. That her last minutes were full of joy and love, and that it was good that she hadn’t been alone. But it was a long time before I believed them. Because it’s impossible to teach a wild young heart that it doesn’t have the power to stop the sun from shining. That something bigger rules over our lives, something that doesn’t understand small needy hearts or black and white justice. Words can’t teach a child wisdom and grace. Only time can do that. Only time and patience and love.
