The Funeral
“Change the channel.” My grandmother rasps, lifting a bony finger at the TV, her body trembling like chattering teeth. I hurriedly comply, startled by the sound of her gravelly voice. As soon as the channel changes, she rests, wrapping her brittle bones in an equally withered blanket.
On the TV, people crowd around a casket, huddling together and resting soft hands on the dead woman’s body, praying over her soul. Every day and every night they pray, holding hands, embracing each other. As she stares at the screen, I see the light of a thousand dead wishes in my grandmother’s eyes. Even her thick glasses cannot hide her tears as she stares at the old woman’s face, captured in an expression of eternal peace, surrounded by those who love her.
Suddenly, the front door bursts open and my mother jogs through, her workout clothes soaked with sweat. She smiles at me, cheeks aflame with excursion. When she looks at my grandmother, that smile drops.
“Have you given your granddaughter any ice cream today?” She asks sharply. As my mother stares expectantly at her, my grandmother doesn’t move, only crying tears from deep within her heart. Unphased, my mother fetches a pint of ice cream, an ice cream scooper, and a bowl, setting them down on the TV tray in front of my grandmother.
“Give your granddaughter some ice cream.” My mother urges, jaw clenching. When she receives no response, she snatches my grandmother’s hands, tearing them from their safety. As her hands are snatched, I see just how thin my grandmother has become. Like twigs crudely tied together to make something that resembles a person. I see the bruises that dot her skin in uncomfortable purple patches. I see the corpse-like grayness that has infected every part of her. How much has she lost over the years? How much of her is gone forever, and what still lives inside her, unable to do anything?
My mother’s and grandmother’s hands open the pint and pick up the ice cream scooper. Their hands disappear into the ice cream carton as they dig into the bottom of the pint. They scrape and scrape and scrape, all the way into the bottom of the carton, creating gashes in the smooth plastic.
At that moment, I see a thousand dead wishes in my mother’s eyes. I see my grandmother wrapped in a pretty white shawl, smiling at her grandchildren as they play in the slip-and-slide in front of her. I see my mother behind her, a hand on her shoulder, forever preserved in time. A moment that would never, ever end. A moment that doesn’t include my grandmother’s gray hands, tears, or the funeral on TV. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, mom?
Satisfied, my mother finally releases my grandmother’s hands. They fall back onto the safety of her lap, but they don’t look safe anymore. They look like dead, decaying tree roots.
“Here, for you.” My mother hands me the bowl of ice cream. I take it and look into the bowl, to the pile of ice cream scoops. Flecks of plastic dust over them like a fresh coat of snow. How many more times would that same pint be abused? How many more scoops would it take?
On the TV, people still huddle around the old woman, but I notice something different this time. The group is no longer a crowd. Instead, it’s just two people. A woman and a girl, holding hands, embracing each other. Praying over the old woman’s soul. They rest soft hands on the woman’s body, shedding tears and yet smiling. Really smiling because they’re finally letting her go. Each of them leans down to kiss the old woman’s head, then slowly leaves the room, wiping their eyes as they go. Then, alone at last, the old woman is finally able to rest. She gets the funeral she always wanted. As I remember everything we’ve lost, emotion wells up inside me. Don’t you know that can’t happen anymore, grandma?
As my grandmother and mother stare at each other, the room falls silent except for the sound of the TV. The funeral on the screen is over, and the old woman’s soul is finally at rest. But in this room, there is no peace. Only a deep sadness that seems to suffocate us all.
My mother finally breaks the silence. “We should go,” she says, “Why don't you help your grandmother to bed?”
I help my grandmother to her feet, and she shuffles slowly towards her bedroom, her body trembling with each step. As she disappears down the hallway, I turn to my mother, wanting to say something, but I can’t find the words.
Instead, I follow my grandmother into her bedroom, where she sits down heavily on the edge of her bed. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m tired,” she says, her voice barely audible. “I think I’ll rest now.”
I nod, feeling the weight of her words. As I leave her room and head towards the door, I glance back at her one last time. She is still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the distance. It’s as if she knows that this is the end of the road for her, and there’s nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable.
I step out of the room and close the door softly behind me. As I make my way down the hallway, I can’t help but wonder how much time my grandmother has left. How many more moments like this will we have together? And when she’s gone, will there be anything left to remember her by except for the painful memories of her decline?
I take a deep breath and try to shake off the weight of my thoughts. It’s a beautiful day outside, and I know that life goes on, even when it feels like it’s falling apart. But for now, I can’t help feeling like everything has changed, and nothing will ever be the same again.
