Well, as they say, we all arrive and leave alone. A voice in my head whispered.
Not true! My heart defiantly answered. Arrivals are met with joy and celebration, babies are snuggled into their mother's warm embrace, affection lavished and given freely. Departures are met with sorrow, regret and tears. Love comes and leaves with us!
Between the beeps of life support systems and her laboured and ragged breathing, her grip on my hand remained constant, and I took comfort in the surprising strength that she still had in her. She was holding on to me as though I was her only anchor to the physical world. As if she would float away at any moment. Her eyes rolled around at me once in awhile, and she nodded and rasped a few illegible words everytime she saw me, satisfied that I was still there.
We were so close in those last few moments. This was odd because I was never what you considered to be my grandmother's pet. Me, the long awaited last hope of my family's name. Mother had failed and grandmother was not pleased. Oh she was fond of me yes, but never in the affection that she showed to her daughter's sons. Who weren't any use anyway, since they wouldn't carry the family name.
Grandmother clutched at me again, her wrinkled fingers spreading up my arm, squeezing my flesh almost painfully. Her clouded eyes travelled the room, still holding on. I tried to release my hands, thinking that I should call my parents or all the numerous uncles and aunts who should be here.
She gestured at me when she saw me punch in the numbers on my phone, shaking her head and pulling me closer. It was as if she knew that her time would soon be over. Don't waste time, her eyes seemed to tell me. She reached out, and I realised she wanted to say something.
Her last words were in her native dialect and hard to understand. At first I thought I didn't hear her properly. I was struck still while the life support systems sounded their alarm and brought nurses and doctors into the room. Everything later was a flurry of motion, crying, wailing, and flailing. It was hard to make sense of it all.
At the wake, alone with my drink in my hand, I thought back to what she said. It dawned on me that she might have mistaken me for someone else. My grandmother, married at 22, 3 daughters and a son, paragon of virtue and humilty, backbone and martriach of my family. There was a photograph in her drawer that she used to take out, more often after grandfather died. I looked at it now, questions flooding my brain. My grandmother and a woman, dressed in old fashion tunics, hand in hand, looking happily into the camera.
"I'll always love you, I'm sorry."
