Granny

Granny smiled up at me, patted my arm with a hand that was nothing but bones, and handed me the doll she had made twenty years ago for my father’s first daughter. I was happy to have it, but there was one problem I could think of with her giving me the doll. I was not my dad’s oldest daughter. That did not seem to matter, though. Granny’s mind had deteriorated at a scary pace; she probably would not even remember giving it to me tomorrow. My sister was so far gone that she only saw dollar signs when she looked at her family and my other relatives just wanted Granny to be happy for a moment. That left me, staring at my hand as it took the doll, and not knowing if I actually wanted it. The doll already symbolized so many memories and emotions.
The doll found its new home on my dresser, where it stared at me for a year, night and day. Finally, I was ready to mail it to Emily and forget the fact that it had been given to me in the first place. Granny’s passing kept the doll on my dresser, where it is today. I knew the Alzheimer meant she could not even remember her great-granddaughter, when she passed quietly in her sleep, but she had given it to me and I trusted her to know what she was doing. When my dad, brother, and I left for Florida and the funeral it stayed.
The open casket was horrible; I would not have gone up to see her in that state if the masses of my relatives had not pushed me towards the unforgiving wood box. They remarked continuously on how beautiful she looked, and how much like her sister. A few even snapped pictures of her, my dad included, murmuring excuses about emailing the pictures to so-and-so who could not be there.
I did not know Granny’s sister, and did not care to comment on her beauty, because it was not present. The faint blush that had always been on her cheeks, even in the worst sickness, was replaced by a chemical glow; her hair was styled in a way that never could have fit her strong, hectic personality. She was not beautiful, because it was not her, it was just a corpse.
Many of my aunts and uncles had been raised by this strong personality. Even some of the old neighborhood children had found in her house a haven that was never closed to them. The funeral was filled with these people, and they all broke down sobbing or were reduced tearful hiccups. I was enlisted, with most of my generation, to help dry tears and reassure everyone that Granny would have been proud of all of us being here together.
Two of my favorite aunts, Gigit and Bobbin, had kept Granny’s old house when she got sick, so her doors were still open. Fifty of my relatives came to this house after the service, a small percentage of them really. They crammed into the living room or kitchen, while more spilled out into the backyard. Stories of the old days were being told in every corner, the tellers meant to cheer their audiences up, but more tears were being shed than there had been at the funeral.
Alcohol started to flow, which brightened the mood considerably. Not everyone drank, but those who did not were drawn in by the sparkling attitudes of those who were drinking the most. The house was abandoned for the muggy Florida air. Smiles started replacing tears. Jokes started flying around. Accusations about who was the biggest troublemaker in the family started a serious contest to see who would really be considered ‘the worst of Granny’s children.’ Red emerged the victor, his red hair and lean body coupled with his martial arts training and numerous arrests put him at the front of the pack.
I laughed with them all as I sat in the corner, wondering if my great-grandmother could have possibly been happy with this drunk, volatile brood. I sat and watched my young cousin’s chase around a dog, watched as my uncle hit his grown son in the back of the head for smarting off, and even laughed when my dad made lame jokes through his grief. Yes, I finally decided, she would have been very, very happy being with this group of her children, liquor and all.
A helicopter started circling the neighborhood at about eleven. The whole family looked up in collective wonder as it swept back and forth. They whistled at how close it was, shouted about being able to see the pilot. People who should not, by all accounts, have been able to stand with so much alcohol in their systems said they could see the very whites of the pilot’s eyes.
“Bet their lookin’ fur summun who’s runnin’!” A watcher called.
“Uh-oh Red, it’s time to split!” Another cousin of mine started pushing Red towards the door, “Can’t let um catch ya!”
When we left Florida the next day, my dad and brother were still somber. I missed Granny, of course, but I was happy. My family had deeply influenced me with their impossible personalities, and the obvious love they shared with any one of ‘Granny’s kids.’