I remember that day like it was yesterday. The last day I ever saw my grandmother.
I stood at the sliding, wooden door that separated her kitchen from the stairs that led to the side door of the house. My grandmother sat—frail, skinny and hunched over in her wheelchair in the kitchen. She looked so sad. She looked lonely.
I was afraid.
I was 15 years old at the time. It was the beginning of the year, early February, and the VHS tapes (yes, VHS tapes) had just been released of my Christmas dance recital. It was a cold, snowy day in Michigan. My mom and I were at my grandmother’s house to help clean up, sort bills and take care of her. I remember it like it was yesterday.
My grandmother was sick but not a normal, everyday cold kind of sick. This was different. This wasn’t the woman I had always known. For my entire life, my grandmother was nothing short of a superhero to me. She was as sweet and gentle as Mother Teresa, as wise as Solomon and as fierce as a lion. She was my grandmother. She was my world.