We sat as a family on December 25th inside my sister and her husband’s newly purchased country home.
My Grandmother, Dorthy, at 100 years old took the gift I had got her and stared it down.
Days prior I was shopping, and as always, full of anxiety being one with the public. What do you get for a 100 year old woman?
A lava lamp.
She buried her nails into the wrapping paper and methodically disrobed her gift.
Upon completion, she held it and stared.
She slowly raised her head and eyed me, knowing that my gift was one of comedic desperation and I was clueless as to what she would want.
“This is lovely, my dear,” she paused briefly, the timing of a sarcastic veteran, “I thought it was a bottle of wine.”
She stole the show. She stole the day.
She was a thief of happiness. An infectious being that radiated that rare energy that wouldn’t allow discomfort or sadness.
“Oh, Corey,” she said, happy I took her hand in mine, “You’re a good boy.”
The doctors said she would have 4 days, I decided she would have another few years, she decided after 20 hours it was time to go.
And go she did.
And what a story she was.
The curtains have drawn, and once again, she stole the show.
I can’t get you a cup of tea, anymore. I can’t make you supper. I can’t bring you your medications and I can’t cover your feet when you are cold.
You were the best roommate I’ve ever had.
You were lovely, my dear.