The last time I saw my Grandma was in a hospital in Henderson, North Carolina this past February.
She was ninety going on a million.
Most people who didn't know her called her Natalie or Mrs. Mitchell. The rest of us called her Grandma Mitch.
The doctors said she had a stroke. She couldn't open her eyes or talk. Her coughs were so violent they would rock the room. That was the pneumonia setting in.
It was cold and rainy outside, but it was warm and cozy inside. Seems like it always felt that way when grandma was in the room, even at the end.
My family and I had visited with her for hours. We talked to her, sang hymns, and prayed.
I waited for the time when I could visit with her alone. I wanted to say goodbye and I didn't want anybody else to hear but her and God.
The time came and I took my place on the edge of her bed. As I sat there, I stroked her soft white hair and her deeply wrinkled face. I held her hand with my other hand. Like I said, she couldn't talk or speak, but she'd let you know it if you let go of her hand. We took turns holding her hand until the end.
I had known her for 34 years. When I was younger, my family would travel 12 or more hours to visit with her several times a year. We'd usually stay a week when we visited. During our stay, I'd learn how to wrest eggs from mother hens, the best way to cheat at cards, how to shuck corn, all kinds of information about old folks I never knew, and all kinds of old sayins I wish I had wrote down. Most of all, I would discover the sweetest love a boy could know.
Each time we'd part, Grandma would pack me a bag full of mississippi mud brownies and give me a handful of quarters to buy Pepsi's on the way home. But the main thing that kept coming back to me on that day in the hospital was the way she'd cry. Grandma would always cry when she said goodbye to me. She'd wrap those big strong arms around me and pull me close to her. I would ignore the smell of lard and the old lady whiskers that scratched against my cheek (man, what I wouldn't do for them now) and just completely melt into her. Her tears would drip on my face as she'd quitely whimper and tell me she loved me. She'd always remind me to come back and see her real soon and don't wait so long.
The day I said goodbye to her in the hospital, I was the one doing the crying.
I can still remember my last words to her:
"I love you Grandma. You were always my favorite grandparent and I always knew how much you loved me. Cause you never gave me any reason to think anything else. I'll see you again real soon Grandma. I won't wait too long"
Most of the time, words don't come that easy to me. But most people aren't Grandma, either.
The day my grandma died, CNN didn't interrupt their programming for 'Breaking News'. There was not even a mention of her on the nightly news. Most of the world didn't notice. If you do a search on the internet, you probably won't find a match. But I promise you, she was the biggest and best that ever was.
