And So...

At five you don't grasp the concept of death, at least not completely. A person is simply unreachable for the moment in time, not gone forever. My father's mother died in her sleep from a diabetes-related heart attack. Of course none of this made any sense to me. As far as I was concerned the funeral was another dress-up event, a tedious "un-fun" event that made school appealing to me. Only now the details of that one week, how the meaning of that event weighted in my life.

When I was younger, back in the days of three-hour school days, I'd been looked after the rest of the day by my father's parents. My grandma, not my abuela, was my favorite. I was still young enough that my uneven distribution of my love was acceptable. And this attention, this preference was returned by my grandma in a not-so-subtle way. I was doted upon even in those final days of wheel-chair bound ailment. A significant amount of attention by any standards, especially when my fourteen other cousins and my younger sister are factored in as well.

The day before her passing I'd shown her a new book of mine. Sitting at her kitchen table we'd simply glanced over the pages, before I was called away. I'd promised before I left that I would return the following day and dazzle her with my extensive accomplishment in the area of reading aloud.

The next morning when my father went to drop me and my sister off at my aunt's house (one conveniently occupying the lot next to my grandparents) it had not seemed to me that this day should leave the usual predictable pattern. It wasn't until my father stood in the doorway to the backlight of flashing blue and red that it dawned on me that there was something unusual going on. The lights brought up false images of officers and police cars to my mind, a common enough sight in this hostile area of Los Angeles but this time that were not the cause. Even as I looked over my father's shoulder and looked on as the paramedics carried my grandma out of her home in a body bag, even when my father delivered the news of her death with blurry eyes I still did not understand.

At her funeral I felt nothing. When I saw her in her casket, nothing still. But when I saw that same casket lowered into the earth, carelessly covered with dirt, it finally occurred to me. It occurred to me a way that my five year old mind could grasp. I was never going read that book to my grandma. Jolted to life by this revelation, it felt like I'd just snapped out of a dream, but still I did not cry.

To this day, ten full years after the fact, I have yet to shed a single tear for the loss of my grandma. But now, unlike before, I feel the loss, the gaping blistering hole in my life that she left. With her gone she took my only chance at having a real grandmother. Sure there was still my mother's mother, but with eighteen other grandchildren of higher importance it was never the same. My grandma, MY grandma took with her the bridge to my grandfather's heart, and without it I'm lost to his love and the love of the rest of his family. But I do not resent her, it was out of her control. No one that dies of tragically delegated misfortune, ever chooses to die. Though I do believe that if she had a choice she'd live for me, for the chance to hear me read that silly little picture book, so that I could have kept my word.

For that reason, I continue a ritual that started the week she died. Born of that unfinished promise ten years ago I came up with a resolution. Late at night, when the rest my household lies in bed, armed with a flashlight and a book I begin to read. It started with that one book, that turned into another, and another, until inevitably I lost count. I vowed to compensate for that one lost opportunity with stolen readings as often as I could with various books.

But no matter how childish the notion, I still believe that my lone voice, steady and smooth now with experience, hovering in the untouched air around me is enough to make up for that promise. Those borrowed words, now easily numbering well over the thousands, serve as a substitute for all those unshed tears. No doubt a much better gift in my grandma's eyes.

And so I read now with a not so heavy heart knowing I appease her unspoken wishes to see me succeed in my schooling.