Last Wednesday night, I was having a good one. I was out with my cousin, watching a funny movie and doing some shopping.
I get home.
My father then tells me that my grandmother is dead.
After eighty long years of life, the woman who birthed my mother and raised half of the damn town has finally gone on to drive God crazy.
I didn't expect to cry as much as I did, or that i would inherit the rosary I had made for her.
Now, I'm not religious, nor do I wish to be. I define myself as agnostic, and I am politely hostile to anyone who wishes to force me to change my mind. But there was something divine in the way my mother, her sister, my sister, and my cousin (all women, all formidable, all bawling) looked, dressed in black at the head of my grandmother's coffin.
It was surreal to see the was the funeral home filled up with people from all over. An institution had fallen, or at least changed administration in a big way.
Last night, at the wake, I was the last one out of the room.
I went up to her, and I wanted so badly to touch her, to make sure that it wasn't a dream, but there was a veil on her so I didn't.
Then the veil fell.
So I replaced it.
And it fell again.
I will never again touch a dead woman's face.
I miss her so much.