Gone

It was October 20, 2022, the day my grandmother died.

My mom had called and told me to come to the house, her voice silent, even when giving directions. Inside, everyone was already gathered. For a family that could not be calmed if the world depended on it, the house was quiet, red-eyed, cousins moving around each other like they were afraid to bump into anything and make it real. I sat, but I kept myself busy, asking small questions, nodding, bringing tissues, making drinks, doing anything except letting myself accept the harsh truth.

After a while, I slipped out the back door and onto her deck.

The air was cold enough that I could see my breath, but not shiver. The wood under my shoes felt well-loved and familiar. This was the place where she used to sit with her Gin and Tonic, where we’d watched summer storms roll in, and leaves change color. Where she’d be found on a spring afternoon, alone with her book and cup of tea. Now it was completely still. Out above the hill, the all too familiar deer stood at the tree line, their heads lowered, moving slowly through the orange and brown. I leaned on the railing and stared at them, trying to feel anything other than numb.

Standing there alone, listening to the trees, I realized I was waiting for her. Waiting to hear the screen door creak open, to hear her voice behind me. When it didn’t happen, when the silence just went on, something inside me finally cracked. I felt the tears start before I could stop them. Looking at the deer in the distance, I knew nothing was going to be the same. She had been the center of our family, and now there was an opening we were going to have to learn how to fill.