Unravelled

Grandma set a Corelle Butterfly Gold plate in front of me. She gave me a wan smile, and I stared at a pile of half-frozen chicken nuggets and peas. We ate in silence under the florescent kitchen lights.

We walked up and down the aisles of the grocery store, Grandma offering me a whole head of iceberg lettuce, a jug of milk, a bag of Madeleines.

Dozens of times over the nine months I lived with her, my grandmother showed me truly unconditional love. She'd recently been placed under 24-hour care for her Alzheimer's, but even when she didn't know who I was, she was kind and selfless. In a time when I found it hard to feel anything but crushing despair, she always made me feel at home.

Today is weird. It feels odd to write a eulogy for someone who hasn't died yet, and it's surreal to know for certain that someone is dying in the next few hours. More than anything, it's strange to feel relieved about it.

I don't know my grandmother very well. I interviewed her for a paper when I was a teenager, but we never really had a long conversation with her. All I know is what I saw: time spent baking bread with her grandchildren, an incredible quiet faith, letting family stay in her home, a love for service, and an uncanny ability to make you feel like you were home.