Somewhere in a car on a mountain my wife was driving with a sleeping boy and every pet we had. She was making good time.
My thoughts were lost in the day before. My father had called on Friday morning, the day prior to our move. He said that she had about 24 hours left—that was what the doctor had said. The day before the doctor had said about three weeks.
40 minutes later she was dead.
She had only been sick a few months.
Cancer is cruel and heartless and someone should punch it in the mouth.
When she was first admitted to the hospital I had flown down to see her. She hadn’t expected me. My presence in the doorway made her cry. She held my hand for a good hour. It felt like a time machine.
I haven’t been that young in a long time.
Tomorrow I’ll arrive at the airport about 45 minutes before my three hour flight. I will take a seat at the bar and I will drink a Bloody Mary minutes after I have eaten my breakfast. I will arrive in the place I left some 10 years ago. Again. I will sit with family and people I’ve never met and I will hear stories about my grandmother and I will nod at strangers and hug people that haven’t seen me since I was this tall.
I will be a little boy without a grandma, and I will cry accordingly.
If you’ve been reading this blog over the past several months you know about my grandmother and her battle with cancer. Thank you for reading and for your thoughts and support. Wynema Honea was 80-years-old and I have loved her for nearly half of them.