I watched as my grandmother waded her dry, cracked feet in the pond. She sat hunched over, her thinning gray hair blowing gently in the calming wind. She was alone now for the first time in her adult life, left to her empty house and lonesome thoughts. Her baggy clothes were a sign of malnourishment, no appetite for the mourning. She was already petite in stature, nails hard and yellowing from the many years of cancer sticks. It’s no wonder that bad habit hadn’t claimed her life before his.
A proud Scottish woman she’s always been, with a temper hotter than mercury and a tongue sharper than a sword. There is much to be learned from this old soul, as she sits on the dock pondering her achy future. My grandmother, always so strong and sassy, now broken and withering. It can’t be seen, and she doesn’t know it yet, but she has the heart of a warrior. I hope to never feel the sadness that she does, but I have learned a love is not possible without the barriers of true grief.
My grandmother rises from her reverie, stumbling slowly to her feet as she regains her balance. The sun glistens off of her silver mane as she turns around and spots me gazing at her in wonder. I come back to reality and notice the smile creeping at the edges of her perfect, yet false teeth. She says something that fills me with hope, a simple sentence that tells me she is strong enough to get past the grief.
“Everything is going to be alright,” she says.
“It will be now,” I respond.
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