We Were Merely Freshmen
A 90’s pop-rock song taught me about death and moving on
The first time death blew its cold, violent wind through my forest I was 12. I soaked it in visually as my grandmother’s already small body withered into an unrecognizable mess of blankets and tubes hooked to beeping machines in a cold room. Her mind was gone for months, if not years, and now the smallness of her would be swallowed up along with the faded memories of her days teaching, playing piano, and wearing pretend Sunday smiles for church as a pastor’s wife.
No moment in life is more sobering than when you know with full certainty you are seeing someone’s face for the last time. There’s a lump that gets stuck in your throat. It’s emotion. It’s finality. The pushing aside of “see you later” because this is really goodbye. I knew standing there from a safe distance because death might be contagious that I would never again see my grandmother. Momma M, we called her. Martha. My memory serves little of her; only a few moments together I recall. Most vividly her eyes open slightly during a prayer before a meal, looking at me, winking. Some secret only we shared. A secret I never asked her to reveal to me.
For most of my life, death has stayed at a distance. I’ve been to funerals, stood near caskets, but rarely has it been someone I’ve been close to. An…
