Dear Death,

I'm scared, and I think I hate you.

My gram is sick, in pain, and her groans echo throughout the house. The walls swell and crack with each cry, and I haven't had a good sleep in months.

When I do sleep, I'm plagued by dark dreams of endless corridors, and I can't find the way out.

Gram's hands, which once lovingly crafted paintings and gestured wildly during her many storytelling sessions, are now gnarled at her side. We never sing together anymore, though sometimes I sit by her bed, crooning her favorites.

I'm not sure she hears me.

She is a large part of why I'm a good person, and I'm losing her.

Dad is tall, solid, and always figures things out. I asked him how we could help gram, but he only cried.

Mom is small, funny, and always makes me feel better. I asked her about gram, and she pulled me in for a hug.

"Sweetheart, there's not always a solution. Sometimes things are out of our control."

She saw how her answer affected me, and added, "Why don't you go sing to her?"

The suggestion lifted me straight away. Mom knows me through I through.

I sang our favorite, "Simple Man" by Lynard Skynard. Gram groaned slightly, but said nothing. The lilting lyrics were broken by my sobs, but I got it out. When I finished, I swore she squeezed my hand. I stopped crying long enough to check her face, but there was no change. She continued groaning, and I fled.

The next morning, mom and dad were crying in the kitchen. Immediately, I knew why, but asked anyway.

"Gram?" The tears nearly choked me.

Dad shook near the sink, unable to respond. Mom crossed the room, face wet, to tell me:

"She's gone."

I heard nothing else, even though mom continued speaking. Tears suspended, I could only stand there. Eventually, my mother's moving mouth registered with me.

"Huh?"

Mom dragged in a deep breath. "I said, gram spoke before she went. She said that your singing brought her through."

Finally, I broke.

Watching the funeral procession, I'm sure now that I don't fear you, nor do I hate you.

While it's true gram will never tell another story, her pain is gone, and for that, I'm grateful.

My nightmares have abated. Last night, I tiptoed into gram's room. Something whispered through me, guiding me to the open door, light from the lamp throwing soft, yellow patterns along the wood floor. Gram sat cross-legged in the bed, long braid hanging over her frail shoulder, smiling at me.

I ran to her, and we embraced, but that's when I was jolted awake.

In the mirror, when I speak, or when I tell a story, I can still feel the warmth of her smile.

~*~

#CollateralBeauty

Thanks to my lovely WP pal krazydiamond for inspiring me!