Sunday morning, I went to church with May.
There's a moment during the service when the pastor begs God's mercy for folks whose names are offered from the congregation either aloud or in silence.
I said my grandmother's name aloud.
I remember this because I never offer anybody's name aloud. I've never felt moved to. If I've had somebody on my mind, I've always figured God always already knows.
After church, May and I had brunch at a joint on 7th Ave. We did some shopping. Basically spend a lazy morning roaming around the neighborhood.
Shortly after getting home, I got a call from my mother informing me that my grandmother is dead.
She was asleep and she just quit.
My mother said something about this being better than slowly suffering. It is the sort of thing you've heard people say before – one of those at-hand tragedy lines we all know are canned, but reach for anyways because the most important things in life cannot be discussed. There's no real way to say that my grandmother somehow avoided suffering. She wasn't given the either or choice.
My grandmother, as an aside, hated the idea of being dead. Too much fuss over the corpse. Funerals offended her common sense. All this ceremony and waste for a dead person. She especially disliked what she viewed as the needless pomp of military funerals (which is ironic as she'll be buried alongside my grandfather in Arlington cemetery). Once, when I was very young, and my family was watching the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, I remember my grandmother saying something like, "If the Army was this careful about where they put them when they were alive . . . "
She was also no fan of the concept of some infinite rest. The metaphor of "rest" frustrated her. A little rest perhaps, but a final and unending rest? Far too dull for her tastes.
God better provide for travel opportunities and bowling, or He'll wish He kept her right where she was.
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