Buttermilk

There's a man outside with a leaf blower and he yells at me because apparently I've parked my car the wrong way and even though I am the ONLY ONE there he makes me re-park my car. It's loud and jarring and sets my teeth on edge because these people, of all the people in the world, should speak softly and kindly.

Once inside I am directed where to go and I enter a tiny, sparse room and there she is in her tiny white coffin. Her hair is smoothed and so are the lines of pain on her sweet face, her hands relaxed instead of clenching and struggling. I look into her face and the tears well up so I tilt my head back and all I can think is how funeral homes should not be allowed to have popcorn ceilings. Or floor lamps from the 1980s. Or white walls. It was spartan and cold and unfitting to the gentle lady who lay there in repose, all alone. There's only one small basket of flowers to brighten up the drab room.

This lady who lays there welcomed me into her family with open arms, proclaiming almost immediately that she had decided that I'm another granddaughter, not just an in-law. She was sweet and feisty and loved to have her family around her; would watch them with bright and loving eyes and fuss and worry over them.

We rushed to her bedside when we hears she was sick, and we spoke to her and she knew us. We told her we loved her and she said she loved us too. Later we stood on either side of her in the hospital, each holding one of her hands as she spoke confusedly from behind her oxygen mask. We finally figured out that she was asking for a glass of buttermilk. She thought that would taste really good. When we explained to her that she couldn't have any, she asked if she could have some orange juice instead. With tears in my eyes I begged the nurse for something, anything, to give her. A cup of ice chips magically appeared and we worked together to slip them one at a time beneath her mask. Her face relaxed when she tasted the first piece and I was so, so very grateful to be able to offer her some comfort. I am so, so very grateful to have had the chance to speak words of love with her before she passed.

Go with grace, gentle woman of God. Your loving presence will be greatly missed, and you will be always in our hearts.

In loving memory of Maimee Jean Bryant, Steven's grandmother.