Loving The Dead

I never met my grandmother, but I feel closer to her than any grandchild is to their grandparent. Mrs. Stevens and her husband were great friends of hers. They both have told me so much about her, which is why I visit her grave on the anniversary of her death every year. Today is no different. The cool breeze is mild; the smell of fresh cut grass and Mrs. Stevens’ green apple pie is thick in the air. The sky is dark and cloudy like it always is in Seattle. It’s a perfect day I hope.

Mrs. Stevens lives right across the street from the cemetery, so she always goes to see my grandmother’s tombstone with me. I hear the old, rusty gate squeak as she opens and closes it. Her footsteps crush the yellow and red leaves on the nearly dead grass; they faded to silence as if she was walking away from me. My heart beat picked up and I could hear it as if I was listening to music through a pair of headphones. She placed her hand on my shoulder and I felt cold. The goose bumps are everywhere; down my neck and up my arms. She starts to speak, but it’s not her; it’s not Mrs. Stevens. This voice is light and faint like the voice of a small girl. Tears jerk from my eyes as the voice tells me things I’ve heard before; stories of my grandmother.

I stand there and listen to the very end. The tears stop as her voice withers away and her hand falls from my shoulder. My eyes close and I take a deep breath. It feels like forever but I finally open my eyes again and I see her standing there. I stand there frozen, trying not to cry again, as I admire her curly, short hair, her brown eyes, her small hands and everything that there is to her. All she does is look at me, smiling, telling me that she loves and is always watching over me. I close my eyes once more and the gate squeaks open. These footsteps are heavier and the aroma of apple pie fills the air making a grand entrance. Mrs. Stevens grabs my hand and my eyes lids split open, showing that my grandmother is no longer present.

We place some flowers in front of her tombstone and headed back to Mrs. Stevens tiny, yellow house. My breathing became heavier the closer we got to her front door. Once we’re inside I go straight to the living room and sit on her small couch. She comes back from the kitchen with some tea and I start to feel a bit light headed; I blurt out what I saw at the cemetery. I feel the warmth come back into my body as I hear the glass shatter on the hardwood floor. She looks at me with pupils dilated, a shocked expression on her face, but she wasn’t as shocked as I thought she would’ve been.

Keeping her enlarged blue eyes on mine she paces back and forth. She speaks up, her voice cracking, and ask me question of what I had seen. I told her that the stories she had told me about my grandmother where repeated by her small voice and that her kind eyes never left mine. Mrs. Stevens started to calm down and finally sat next to me. I told her about the love I felt when I heard my grandmother speak and she took my hands. Lifting me up she started pulling me towards the front door and I soon found myself in front of my grandmother’s tombstone again.

When my grandmother appeared again I noticed the dress she was wearing. It was hand sown and maybe passed through a sowing machine a few times. I expected nothing less from a woman who could’ve practically gotten through life all on her own if she wanted to; from the woman I look up to.

Mrs. Stevens walked with me through the graveyard telling me that this wasn’t something she hadn’t seen before and that she was expecting this to happen at some point. She knew that if I saw my grandmother, listened to her, I would feel something amazing in my heart. She knew that if I just looked into her eyes once I would feel her embrace forever and ever, and I do.