It Waited for my Final Page

I have never given much thought to the concept of death or the act of dying. Death was a staple in my young life; it lingered in the darkness, never straying too far from the shadows. If I weren't aware of its presence, I’d forget it was there. Yet now and then, it allowed a more profound look than the sporadic glimpses I had grown accustomed to. It became an eye in the dark, a mischievous giggle in the air, or an icy touch on warm skin. I didn't understand why it made itself known to me, giving me nothing concrete, never making itself tangible, or giving me bits and pieces. It wasn’t until my grandmother died that an answer, one which came in five parts, began to shape itself.

My grandmother was fearless and loud. Her existence commanded people to acknowledge her presence, and she refused to move unless they did. She was an enigma, contradictory by nature and stubborn to a fault. She had a restless heartbeat, born from a generation that scorned indolence. Stillness and silence—shackles she refused to be collared by—represented everything she abhorred. She detested the morning and the way calmness and serenity settled in the air and enveloped her shoulders.

And yet, despite her hatred of indolence and the quiet of early mornings, as she got older and weariness set into the fabric of her skin, she lingered in quilted sheets until the sun reached its highest peak, and she could feel the movement of life in her bones. Only then could she raise herself from the bed and refuse to stay still until she decided her day was done.

As the years wove silver through her dark curls, my grandmother kept with the rhythm of the world’s soul. In every minute, she stayed busy, refusing to let years dictate the pace of her days, and yet, she was not immune to old age. Her illness, once it hit, seemed endless, and I watched my parents’ worry grow heavier each day. She was always too tired now; her energy had faded, and she spent her days drifting in and out of sleep, struggling just to breathe.

One of the answers I received was this: Death was not kind or forgiving, but it was extraordinarily patient. It lurked at the edges, its fingers ghosting about my grandmother’s skin, its lips inching ever closer. It was anticipating its next victim to fall into its waiting hands, but my grandmother swore to stretch its vigil until time itself forgot her name. On the days she was lucid, not that there were many, she refused to acknowledge that her time on Earth was ending. She did not entertain any talk of funeral homes and caskets or burial plots. Any whisper of updating her will was met with harsh glares and sharper words. She refused to concede, clinging stubbornly to her defiance in the face of her fate. For three months, her one-sided battle raged on until Death, finally weary, pressed its lips against hers, ending her death rattle.

That’s when I received the second part of my answer. Death, in its final moments, in the immediate aftermath, was peaceful. The quiet and stillness that my grandmother hated surrounded us, and I did not understand why she hated it so. As I grew up, I realized that many people hated the silence after death; it was uncomfortable for them, and it was unnatural for the air to be so gentle and unsuffocating. I, on the other hand, wondered why anyone would want the aftermath to be anything but.

My mother cried endlessly the day my grandmother finally succumbed after her long battle. In the days after, I heard more conversations about money than I ever had. Hushed whispers in the kitchen about funeral costs and whether a burial or cremation would be cheaper immediately stopped when I entered the room. When she believed she was alone, my mother cursed my grandmother for not preparing for the inevitable, for leaving her without a way to give her a proper funeral. Although I didn’t fully understand, the third part of my answer was this: Death is a contradiction. There was freedom for the ones who went, but it was rarely free for those who stayed.

Within a few days of my grandmother’s death, family descended upon my home, upending routines and rooms alike. Yet, I didn’t understand the air of sadness that permeated my home. It was odd to see people crying or waking up to the sound of muffled sniffles in the middle of the night. I often stood in the corner, watching as people mourned, listening as they told unheard stories of my grandmother, and I wondered, 'Why hasn’t anyone gone to visit her?' Needless to say, when I posed that question, I was met with confused and pitiful glances. Despite my mother telling me that she was gone, I couldn’t believe her. At least, not until I asked to go over to her house, and my mother had to sit me down and explain to me that my grandmother was gone forever.

“That’s what death is, sweety,” she said, brushing a strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. She then lightly gripped my chin and brushed a single hand over my cheek. “People go away, and they never come back.”

I remember still being confused. What did she mean by “go away?” Do they go on vacation, or do they move away like Elise did last summer? “So where do they go?”

My mother smiled gently at me, her hand smoothing down my hair. “Oh, sweetling,” she chuckled. “They go into the ground, and then they’re buried. They return to the Earth.”

Even so, I asked if I could go dig her up so she could play, the idea still not gaining a foothold in my mind. My mother simply laughed as if I said something funny and shook her head.

“Grandmama is bones and dust now, darling. Think of her like sand; she’ll slip right through your little fingers.”

Somehow, that’s what finally got me to understand. You can’t take sand home with you. You must leave it outside where it belongs. In my mind, when people die, they turn to sand, and no matter how much you may want to, you can’t bring sand into the house, and you can’t carry it in your pockets. Again, I received the fourth part of an answer I so desperately wanted. Death takes away the physical aspect of those you love. You’re left with memories, old possessions, and emotions, and that will have to be enough.

As I got older, death cemented itself more firmly in my mind and in my life. My grandfather, my dog, a little boy across the street, and the sweet old lady at church who gave out caramels. This is where the fifth and final part of the answer, which evaded me, finally made itself known. Death is predetermined, intertwined, and woven together with destiny and fate. It is the only thing that is guaranteed. I’ve come to acknowledge that no one is destined to live, but each day we exist on borrowed breath. However, all souls are fated to die whenever life is ready for us to stop hitching a ride on her back, however early that might be. To fight against it, to run, and to fear it are pointless, meaningless, and completely and utterly useless.

With all that I learned about Death, I never feared it as others have. I always wondered, what was the point of evading as if you could outrun your end? I didn’t have fantasies about what it would be like to live forever. I never understood the obsession with immortality and why so many traveled to far-off places in search of it. From the Fountain of Youth to the Philosopher's Stone, the hunt for immortality lingers, carried by scientists chasing the impossible and those too afraid to accept everything life has to offer.