In the south, the only thing that comes before family is God.
For the past several years I have had the pleasure of spending nearly every weekend with my grandparents. What started as weekly trips to take a dip in their pool, turned in to a lasting tradition where more times than not, I never jumped off the diving board or even dipped my toes in the water. My time was spent in the living room, curled up on the couch, with my head in my Grandmother's lap while Papa talked of his good deals at Costco, his friends up at the gym, or the neighbor's dog (who also thought he belonged to my grandparents). Most stories I heard more than once, but remembering my manners, I always asked questions and laughed when I should, never letting on I had heard it before.
As I entered in to my late 20s, I wondered how many others were as lucky as I; a grandmother who spoke as if I could do no wrong and a Papa who always had brownies or Hershey kisses, a place where I could be carefree and for a few hours each week, forget the world that raised hell around me and instead soak up laughter and love.
As my grandmother became less and less aware of others, our conversations moved to the sitting room where the sun would spill over her shoulders and cast an angelic glow. Sinatra would be playing on the record machine and my grandpa would sing what he remembered and hum what he didn't. Most often, my grandmother would not say anything, but sing, she would. Her voice, as sweet as honey, nearly brought me to tears every time.
When she no longer remembered the words to her favorite artists and later when she had trouble piecing together sentences, I'd visit her in her bedroom. Our conversations were mostly one-sided, but holding my hand, I could hear everything she wasn't saying. I'd spend the remainder of my time in the living room with my Papa, trying to avoid what we both knew was ahead of us, and instead recall times that made us both laugh. Our hugs got stronger and lasted longer as the days began to turn colder.
In January my Sundays came to an end. I kissed my grandmother on her forehead and fought back the tears, knowing it would be the last time I saw her. She smiled and kissed my cheek, something she hadn't done in months. I breathed her in, trying to remember everything about the moment. No longer able to keep my composure, I crawled in to bed beside her, and lifted her head to my lap. I played with her hair like she had done so many times before, told her how beautiful she was, and shakily sang my favorite song. When it was time for me to go, I thanked her for being the Grandmother every child should have and walked towards the door. My Papa met me in the hall with a hug, tears streaming down his face, and we exchanged heavy sighs as we both let the impact of the moment hit us.
A few weeks later, my mother called to tell me what I already knew. My grandmother, after fighting for the better part of the year, had lost her final battle with Alzheimer's. She slipped away early in the morning, wrapped in my Papa's arms. I imagine him, softly stroking her hair, whispering in her ear, and holding on to those final moments. How sweet her last breaths must have been. On the flight back to California, I listened to Sinatra, held tight to a picture of my Grandmother, and remembered every Sunday.
After her death, I reinvented my Sundays with Papa. No longer able to visit in person, we opted for phone calls and Skype when available. He still talks of his savings at Costco, the nurses who took care of my Grandmother, and Rocky, the neighbor's dog. We both talk about Grandmother and how much we miss her, recalling some of the times that make us both smile. My Sundays are now filled with church, gardening, and work, but I always make time for my Papa. Some things, never change. And for that, I am thankful.
