I don’t remember Grandma’s death. The only flash of memory is a snippet of conversation, and a flash of grief and concern on Mom’s face.
My most clear memory of Grandma: she would squeeze my cheeks between her index and middle fingers and then twist. Simultaneously, her Calabrais face in mine, she’s say, ”La Bella!”
I still feel my cheeks ache!
Evidently, I didn’t take her death well. I didn’t understand that she was gone, or so Mom would tell me. She became so concerned that she bought the book “When People Die.” I sat on her lap as she read me the picture book cover to cover that night.
“I should have let you attend the funeral,” Mom often said afterward.
It would have made no difference. But how could I tell her, then, what took me so long to understand?
her faded photograph
her sole remains
photo by Samuel Zeller