The only grandmother I’ve ever had and known passed away before Christmas. It was the first time someone I loved passed away, and it was a really sad and quiet time for everyone because no one knew how to put their sadness into words. I imagine my grandmother is nicely settled into heaven now, so I wrote her a letter to give her a break from poolside chillin with Frank Sinatra and Shirley Temple.
Hey, remember the time you curled my hair in ringlets to make me look like Shirley Temple, but instead you burnt off half my hair with ancient hot rollers because my hair is so much thinner than White people hair? Yeah, I forgive you. I’m sorry none of us were there by your side as you entered your new life in heaven. That wasn’t fair, but life isn’t fair, and you know that better than me. But what is fair, is that we all die, and we will all join you soon, and it’ll be really awesome for us because you’ll show us where everything is, especially the jacuzzi and open bar.
Death is a concept beyond my understanding. But what little I know about it is that death is really selfish. Not for the dying, but for the living. We miss you a lot and your presence is irreplaceable. It was the first time I ever saw Dad cry, and he didn’t even cry when I dropped a brick on the hood of his 64 Corvette. I hope that when you went, it was easy and painless. I hope there wasn’t a line, with pushy Chinese people who cut in front of you, and that you were greeted by loved ones holding giant signs with your name on it to make you feel right at home.
I wish we could have spent more time together. I wish you could have taught me how to cook fatty white people food like grits and gravy, and how to make pottery and stitch. When we’re together again, we’ll overindulge in butter soaked food and we won’t get fat or full because there are no carbs in Heaven, and our stomachs forever expand while we stay a size 0. I love you. You’ve rested long enough, party hard with the people you’ve missed for so long.
