to be here...

The airport was more forgiving than the plane ride.  Tom and I moved around at leisure, played on the internet, and ate Twizzlers.  Granted, the hour delay I was hoping for extended over and over.  Having waltzed through check-in and security around 7 pm, we watched the crowded airport empty from a seat overlooking the terminal.  Our flight, booked to depart at 9:25 pm, didn't board until well after 11 pm, only to get in que for take off behind eight other planes.  The ride was a test of comfortability and exhaustion.  We touched down half past 1 am, gathered my bag from the carousel, and walked right out and into Marty's truck.  I kissed Miki good-night as the alarm clock blinked 2 am.  And shortly thereafter I blinked my eyes closed for sleep.  A long, long, emotional day...   Waking up to another long, emotional day, I found myself crying into the pillow from a bad dream.  In some ways this whole thing is just a bad dream.  I have had to admit to my friends and co-workers in Denver, people who don't how amazing my Grandma was.  To be here, to hear people say "I'm sorry", to be with people who knew her: it is disarming and uplifting at the same time.  The waves of emotions come when they want, and almost always when someone asks, "How are you?" and offers a hug.  It is in that embrace, feeling most vulnerable, that I know I am not "OK" or "Fine" or even "Just trying to keep it together."  Deep down I am torn apart, trying to be strong like Grandma, willing myself to have steadfast faith like Grandma.    Sitting in Grandma's living room before lunch, the tears rolled down my cheek.  The glider, the piano, the coffee table of her books.  The mantle of her pictures.  The things naturally set where she last laid them.  Her neat little handwriting on a note by the phone.  They all suggest she'll be back from the store soon, is on her way home from getting her hair trimmed and curled, or just down the hall behind a closed door.  To see a home so familiar and crowded with family that feels so empty.  Denial is no longer possible.    We went to the viewing after lunch.  She doesn't look like herself.  She doesn't look like Grandma.  But she looks at peace, and the one comfort I hear over andover is that she didn't suffer, even that she looked a little bit more radiant and at peace on Tuesday.  Watching my goddaughter, six-year old Maddie, look on and look around at the family gathered around Grandma, I remember what a blessing it is to have been Grandma's "Girlie-girlie".  To have lived my first eighteen years one street-crossing away.  To have have had my first sleepovers up the street, most of my birthday parties, and all of my Christmases.  What a blessing!  Maddie still has GC, but it will be my responsibility, and all of my family's responsibility, to remember Grandma to Maddie.  To share the stories of fortitude and faith with the youngest among us, so they remember, too.