I prayed it’d happen in the fall. Who wants to die in the winter? And summer is to be watched over like a small child, and its death should be mourned like our own. My grandmother died yesterday. The woman who sent me to parks to play on monkey bars, essentially teaching me to let go, stretch into the unknown and grab hold of something new. The old woman who handed me a spool of thread and a needle because her sight wasn’t so great, showing me the ease of looking around the eye of the needle, and the difficulty of looking through one. In the event my relationships fell apart, this is how I would fix this at the seam.
My grandmother died in the fall. And I miss her like I’d miss my imagination had it ever left. I miss her because my soul was attached to hers at its hip, and because I drank coffee by the cups when I was 5, and just because. I lost my best friend, but I watched her stare through a window I was unable to, and I know, because of the imagination that hasn’t left yet, that she’s on the other side of that window, in some park, playing on monkey bars.
No one would understand the power of our final conversation, or the reason I cried as hard as I did for so brief, then smiled for so long. I broke, and because there is no one right now to meet the girl of my childhood, I used the needle and thread to put myself together.
-darnell lamont walker