Exhaustion settled into my bones, a heavy weight after years of caring for my father through his final illness. But exhaustion wasn’t the only feeling. A flicker of warmth ignited in my chest as I remember daddy. I love him as worship.
The woman whom I am inhaling her eyes widen with curiosity, bright with a need to know, was Ivy, my maternal grandmother.
Unlike my father, whose decline had been marked by a relentless tide of medical complexities, Ivy’s journey had been punctuated by moments of shared laughter and quiet understanding. We held onto each other, drawing strength from the resilliance that flowed between us.
I watched her in her last days live for me. I would arrive and we would sit for hours, just holding hands. Her hand resting weakly in mine. It was enough for me.
Then a nurse took me aside and explained she is fighting her transition.
She is living for you Micheleina.
My father lived for me as well
It is heavy to be hope most days-
I looked at the nurse: She said, I will hold you as you hold her.
So I leaned in
“It’s okay, Ivy. You can leave now.”
I didn’t mean it, but she needed rest. All her life had been labour
A peaceful smile played on her lips as she drifted off, surrendering to the comfort of the peace.
She said one last ” Thank you & Collin”
Grief threatened to engulf me, yet a sense of gratitude bloomed alongside it. We had healed each other, and in letting go, she had found peace.
