the would-be writers guild

Ryan’s grandma doesn’t have much longer with us. I spent a little while this afternoon at her bedside with Alison and Heidi as she slept a morphine-induced nap. We talked about her, amazed at the bigness of her spirit, even as she lay peacefully sleeping in a bed with a barely-beating heart. She has always been a powerful figure, one that family legends are made of. She is absolutely one of the toughest people I have ever known, and I mean that in the most all-encompassing way. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. One tough cookie. And yet, as unlikely as it seems, she has always struck me as being so precious.

I sat there looking at her hands. Worrying whether or not it was appropriate, I decided to take a few pictures. I couldn’t get over those hands and all that they’ve created and touched over a long and lovely life.

This is Alison’s hand with hers. Through tears Alison said, “This is the last piece of my mother.” Ryan feels the same way. Grandma’s decline has brought back so much of the emotion from losing their mom, Deanna. What I can’t keep from noticing in this picture, though, is how much Alison’s short-nailed hand looks like Deanna’s. It gives me goosebumps in a very beautiful way.

She never woke up while we were there. Heidi said she’d only had a few lucid moments in the day. I took a picture of her sleeping. I’ve had the Beatles song, Golden Slumbers, playing in my head ever since.

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullabye