on mourning

My maternal grandmother passed away on 17 October, 94 years of age and still full of life. Her body did not fail her, but rather her house, which suffered a severe fire, that is what took her away from us too early. She fought for life for ten days with terrible burns and serious lung damage, a marvel to the staff at the burn hospital. She was the last of my grandparents to pass; her husband, my beloved "Gramps" died in 1995. My father's parents, Nana and Pop-pop died in 1996 and 1983, respectively. On the maternal side I am the oldest of the ten grandchildren, and as was the case at Grandpa's funeral my mother asked me to speak at the service. I jotted down some notes before I spoke, but frankly, I did not say all that wanted to as I feared I would lose control of my emotions. This is close to what I said: As I have sat beside the phone those terrible ten days between the fire and Grandma's death last Saturday, I found comfort in two different thoughts. Separated by many miles and obligations of work and contract from simply heading north as we waited for news, I was left to think (for I knew from the first phone call that there was only possible conclusion) and find some occupation for my grief. The first thought was the sweet memory of my last visit (with one of my brothers) with Grandma, which had taken place four days before the fire. It was a completely ordinary visit, now made extraordinary by these tragic events. It was a lovely day and we spent most of the 5 hours sitting on the sun-porch. Grandma asked about my new position and how I liked the South. She asked my brother about how is school was coming on and about his new apartment. She asked him about DNA (my grandmother was insatiably curious) and whether it would be possible to get a sample of hers for family research in Austria. We talked about her plants (she had a wonderful green thumb) and about her new neighbors across the street, how they had both recently purchased motorcycles. She told us some stories about youthful trips to the Jersey shore before she married my grandfather that I had never heard before. We bought her some dinner from the Italian place down the street (soup and a chicken sandwich - she complained we had bought too much and that we should eat the sandwich - which did not stop her from munching through the fires in short order - they were good) As evening fell, my brother and I took our leave, as we planned to visit with another brother at his new job before heading back to central New Jersey. I told Grandma I'd see her again at Thanksgiving and promised to call soon. She walked us to the door, and waited for us to honk as we pulled away before turning back and heading back into her house. An ordinary visit. But that is my last memory of her alive and it is, to my mind, fitting. The second thought is more complicated. In speaking with my mother a few weeks before the fire, she mentioned that Grandma had been telling her that she had been seeing and hearing Dad (Grandpa) and her sister Millie asking her "when she was coming to them." These were not dreams. I take great comfort in this, one in the promise of the afterlife, but also in the knowledge that while Grandma loved us all very much, all those whom she had grown up with and loved her whole life had gone on ahead of her, and she missed them. In losing her to death here, we set her free to be with them and await us when our turn comes.