It is midnight. It is dark. I am nine years old in bed, half asleep. I feel like I am dreaming, floating in a fog.

Muffled sounds are heard. They seem to be coming from the back bedroom. The sounds turn into muffled words, hard to understand. They seem so far away.

I struggle to hear what the words are and what they mean but I can’t make out what is being said. I cannot sleep and I can’t wake up. I am afraid. The muffled sounds continue.

Finally, my eyes open. It is cold. I get out of bed and follow the sounds, back to grandma’s bedroom, shaking.

Why am I afraid? Why are there so many people in grandma’s bedroom? There is grandma, grandpa, mother, daddy and a tall thin man in a dark suit, hovering over grandma. He must be the doctor. He is pulling out a long, thick string of phlegm from her throat as she coughs.

Grandma looks so weak. Her face is white and tight as a skeleton. The smell from that black, powdered medicine for her asthma fills the room.

Mother sees me and says firmly, “Mary, go back to bed.” I didn’t need an explanation as to why I couldn’t stay.

Back in bed, the night drags on. I can’t sleep. Early morning hours are spent lying, wondering, waiting, lying, wondering, waiting – waiting and wondering what is going to happen. Will grandma get better?

I hear a glass drop. Something breaks. Muffled voices are heard again, then silence.

Somehow, I fall asleep. It isn’t until the sun creeps in through the shutters and mother comes to hold me in her arms, that I know…I know that my dear, darling grandmother, who has nurtured me since birth, is dead.

Copyright © 2007 Mary L. Ports