My
grandmother died this morning. My kooky grandmother, my silly grandmother, the lady who convinced me when I was little that there were
spies in the ceiling ducts of restaurants keeping tally of how many maraschino
cherries I had in my soft drinks. And with her
death comes...
guilt.
Immense guilt. I haven't seen her in about six or seven years... I haven't talked to her in about two. My
father always asked me to visit her with him, and I always refused, for the mere reason that she was old. She was a reminder of my imminent
aging and death, something that I generally do not like to think of. She was a good woman,
a wonderful woman, but it scared me to see her.
I remember, also, what happened the last time I
did see her. We were driving to a
cemetary in late summer in
Ohio to see my
great aunt's grave. My dad was lost, and couldn't remember what part of the cemetary it was in... my grandmother, settled on being
cranky that day, refused to tell him where it was. Finally, the combination of the
heat and her
stubborness got to me and I screamed at her, "You're a stupid old woman and I hate you! Why don't you just tell him where it is?" Her eyes grew dark, upset.
I've never apologized for saying that, or some of the other "nice" things I said to her during that visit. And now... now all I can think of is how she probably died thinking her grandaughter hated her and was glad she was dying.
When I was little, she was my favorite person in the world. She'd take me out for
ice cream when she visited, go "boy hunting" (a little inside joke between the two of us), and tell me interesting stories about her life and what my dad was like when he was little.
I loved her. I still do. I just hope that in the end, despite my lack of communication, she realized that.