I remember searching for a vein in my granny’s yellow arm so the white female nurse could put the drip in. That woman was too fucking casual or maybe I was too fucking frantic. Whatever the case it wasn’t happening fast enough. We could have beat death together but we were unequally yoked – the nurse and I. I didn’t find the vein but I found out that I could be a failure when I failed to find the vein.
Her eyes turned blue.
I wrestled the invisible skyman for her life, pulled her skin like a creole duvet and thought I left the skyman cold with his invisible feet poking out and vulnerable to nighttime monsters because she made it through the night, but then when the sun came it came quietly. It didn’t burn. It didn’t shine. It just waited for me.
I got up and I pulled a black woolly jumper.
my face itches.
I didn’t wash. My skin was dirty when she died crawling with the failure from the previous night. I was dirty when I cried my tears soiled with the anger that the wrong person had told me granny died. But my heart was clean in spite of the temptation to be mean to family.
I wanted to look my best and get to the hospital quickly because mum told me to get ready. I did as I was told and when she died my feet were cold but only because I felt the hospital floor grounding my bare feet and chilling my old soul.
I lost my gran and I am still struggling to lose these memories and remember her as I lived for her. It’s so hard. Am I not supposed to still have this in me all these years later? Every time I wake and see the sun I pray it will burn because I can’t take another one …
God help me lift this grief that threatens to leave me with more gaps in my teeth.