My grandmother died last Tuesday. I saw her in the hospital with her tongue pushed out to the side of her mouth and her hair in grey, haphazard braids. The doctor held my mother’s hand and told her that my grandma wasn’t breathing on her own. She was letting the machine do all the work for her, so he held my mother’s hand and told her that he recommended turning off the machine. As he talked, I looked him in the eye and I looked at his hands, and when he hugged my mom and left, all six of us in the room cried. They took her off the machine the next day. I didn’t know her that well. My grandmother died on a Tuesday with her tongue pushed out.
The funeral is in Jamaica. I will miss a week of school for it. I’m going to sing Take My Hand, Precious Lord. Sing it smooth and slow, like she can hear.