We walked through Granny's house last Sunday, sister and I pointing to every other item. Yes, I'll take the hand-tinted photos of the French Quarter, didn't you say you wanted the crystal decanters? I tried to usher us through quickly, squeezing this last trip before the estate sale into some made-up time limit. I said the dink needed to get home.
Dink was 12 weeks in utero when Granny died. At six weeks, I had pressed my face up to hers in ICU and yelled to her that I was pregnant. I could see in her eyes and her faint smile that she understood. I held her hand and told her all of the slim details I had so far of the pregnancy, and I prayed that she would find the dink one more reason to will herself healed. To an extent, that worked. At 8 weeks, I marched excitedly into her hospital room with a chain of ultrasound photos, pointing out the baby's arm buds and head. Her shaking hands crumpled the thin-sheeted imprints as she tried to rip one off. DH grabbed some scissors, and we left one of the photos in the room with her. And at 9 weeks, 10 weeks, and 11 weeks, I saw the dink move around her room, sometimes on the nightstand, sometimes on the windowsill, sometimes near the tv. I'd like to know where he was at 12 weeks, when she called it quits. I couldn't make it to the hospital in time to have one last look at her room. I suppose she decided that 27 weeks was too long to wait when she had already been waiting so long.
Granny, I wish you would have waited longer. You really would have loved the dink, and don't you remember how sweet S was as a baby, learning how to say Ga-ranny and running to you for a hug? I suppose life is full of sweetness no matter how long you live. And I guess you'd had your fill. I like to imagine that you're moving about the dink's room now, maybe petting his hair when he wakes up at night (you know he loves that), or simply watching from the corner in your old rocking chair.