
I visited the cemetery today. A family friend’s son passed away a few weeks ago, and I went to pay my respects. The gravesite was still fresh; you could still see the rectangle-shaped ditch where the casket was laid peacefully into the ground.
He was 27 years old. And a good kid.
My grandma passed away when she was 84. She was in the hospital for two years and made it her mission to get out of that hospital and meet (and hold) her great-granddaughter. I believe I get my strength and tenacity from this one-hell-of-a-woman. She once got locked in a Taco Bell bathroom; she kicked the door off its hinges after a while because no one knew she was trapped in there.
I love telling that story about her.
My grandma loved ferociously like a mama bear, went through hell and back (more than a few times) — and not once did I ever see her break a sweat. She was one of the most graceful human beings (besides her daughter) I ever had the honor of loving. Whenever she is on my mind or in my dreams, the next few days are mysteriously filled will Monarch butterflies in the most random places. It’s not so much about spotting these butterflies that I take as a sign from the Afterlife.
It’s the way they fly around me tenderly and slowly flutter by with grace.
. . .
Happy Friday to Ellie Jacobson and the rest of you beautiful humans! For the last few weeks, I’ve been bouncing aboard the Struggle Bus — but it’s sparkling connections (and warm writing prompts) that pull me out from under my crippling depression! Yay!
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This post was previously published on Flint and Steel.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism |
Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box |
The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer |
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Photo credit: Unsplash
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism
Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box
The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer
