My sister rested her hand, pink with youth and warmth, against the graying hand of the woman in the hospital bed. My father placed his hand on her arm, my mother on her ankle, my aunt on her head. My grandfather kissed her cheek when nurses removed the ventilator, and whispered his goodbyes. My hands remained clasped tightly in my lap when my grandmother took her last breath. I stared at the blue tile floor. She was gone before she stopped breathing.
Warm. Her hands were always warm. Brown from the heat of the sun and dirt from the garden, her fingers rested on her chin when she laughed. Her little finger stirred cups of hot coffee. She could always detect a fever with the inside of her wrist pressed against forehead, then cheeks.
Her face looked different against the cream of the casket lining. Her white hair was gone on one side, replaced by a puckering scar covered with makeup. Doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding in her brain from the aneurism. Morticians couldn’t fake the way the light hit her face when she smiled. I couldn’t look directly at her face. Standing arm in arm with my sisters, both of them touched their fingertips to her hands, cheeks, hair, shoulder. I started to sweat. I could suddenly feel the heat of the room, the living bodies surrounding me. I held my hand out to hers, to remember the soft creases of her palms. I drew it back when I felt the ice of her swollen, plastic skin. She was nothing more than a shell now, a lifesize doll put on display. I imagined her eyes as shiny black plastic. Lifeless. Like those of a stuffed animal posed in the corner of a room as a shrine to a successful hunt. What a great mother she was, and nurse, grandmother, friend, and wife. She was our trophy, in her death, to be placed in a glass case in the center of the room, a well-lit sarcophagus to remind the living of the stillness of death. They touch her because they don’t want to fear death. I don’t because I fear what death feels like on her skin.
The day before the hospital, her hands were warm on mine as she showed me how to knead dough. Warm as she placed a line of white flour across my cheek with her thumb. I remember them warm. I remember them alive.
Warm. Her hands were always warm. Brown from the heat of the sun and dirt from the garden, her fingers rested on her chin when she laughed. Her little finger stirred cups of hot coffee. She could always detect a fever with the inside of her wrist pressed against forehead, then cheeks.
Her face looked different against the cream of the casket lining. Her white hair was gone on one side, replaced by a puckering scar covered with makeup. Doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding in her brain from the aneurism. Morticians couldn’t fake the way the light hit her face when she smiled. I couldn’t look directly at her face. Standing arm in arm with my sisters, both of them touched their fingertips to her hands, cheeks, hair, shoulder. I started to sweat. I could suddenly feel the heat of the room, the living bodies surrounding me. I held my hand out to hers, to remember the soft creases of her palms. I drew it back when I felt the ice of her swollen, plastic skin. She was nothing more than a shell now, a lifesize doll put on display. I imagined her eyes as shiny black plastic. Lifeless. Like those of a stuffed animal posed in the corner of a room as a shrine to a successful hunt. What a great mother she was, and nurse, grandmother, friend, and wife. She was our trophy, in her death, to be placed in a glass case in the center of the room, a well-lit sarcophagus to remind the living of the stillness of death. They touch her because they don’t want to fear death. I don’t because I fear what death feels like on her skin.
The day before the hospital, her hands were warm on mine as she showed me how to knead dough. Warm as she placed a line of white flour across my cheek with her thumb. I remember them warm. I remember them alive.