10 days that make the difference - part three

It's a cold day. There is a light snow falling in the wind. The sky is grey. There is a small gathering of distant relatives assembled. My father is there, but we aren't speaking to each other. My grandmother is there, but she's not speaking to anyone. Well, not with words anyway.

She has shrunk to a paltry 85 pounds. She's so small that they had to put her in a children's coffin. It's barely five feet long, if that.

The last time I saw her she couldn't move. She couldn't laugh. She couldn't remember my name and she couldn't hug or kiss me. She couldn't have done anything on her own. She was a shell of her former self. A little frail body, laying in a stale nursing home bed, lost without any ability to communicate or to live a life.

This woman had been my family rock and the symbol of all that I felt I was supposed to aspire to. She was my biggest fan and I adored her. We spent years together before she was placed in a nursing home and the impact of this day was indescribable.

I took her for granted. I would only visit her twice in the last two years of her life and both visits were empty. What stings me is that I never fought for her. I never tried to improve her life. I never saw her off. She died without me and without the comfort of even knowing if anyone still loved her. She died alone. Her family, which she had shown nothing but affection and support for, had turned on her and left her to rot. And I was just as guilty as the bastards that were standing around her grave next to me. Their crime had been to liquidate her assets and leave her without any way to take care of herself.

In a final act of betrayal on my part, I left the ceremony in the middle of it and never looked back. To this day, I have never spoken to any conspirators of my grandmother's demise. As I see it, the only person I wanted to talk to was in that small blue casket and there was no way that I could ask her to forgive me or to tell her that I loved her. I sat back and watched her world get dismantled and I did nothing to stop it.

It was a cold day. The ground was frozen. Snow was falling to emphasis the tone of the day. I didn't need to see her funeral. I left her there in that cold ground, by herself... Years earlier.

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It was a huge car. Green, seating for 12. Behind the wheel was a small southern woman smoking a cigarette and trying her best to look over the steering wheel at the road in front of her. She's loving the time with her grandchildren and she could care less what is being asked of her.

My older brother and I are sitting in the backseat. We are carrying on as young boys will. There is excitement in the air. We are so amped that we running laps in the backseat. The lady in front seat thinks it's cute and charming.

The ark stops in front of a huge blue building. The front of the building is being held up by huge white pillars. My brother and I file out of the ark and our grandmother leads us toward the palace. We walk in the front doors and the strong smell of popcorn fills my nose. The lobby is filled with people eating from large tubs of popcorn or candy, and sipping on sodas. It's exciting but I'm scared. My tiny hand is grasping my grandmothers as she purchases tickets and is still grasping her hand when she buys a huge tub of popcorn for us to enjoy.

I have never been in a movie theater before. The screen seemed larger than the building and the darkness rattled me a bit, but with the look of enthusiasm on my grandmother's face and the apparent lack of interest on my brother's, I knew that everything was going to be alright.

The room got darker and the screen came to life. Cartoons started to play, which made me happy. Then suddenly there was a loud noise and the words, "Star Wars" scrolled up the screen.

For the next few hours, I knew nothing of the world around me. I didn't know where I was or what I was thinking. All I knew was that when I grew up, I was going to be Han Solo.

The film ended and we left the theater with half of tub of popcorn and big 4 year old dreams. The door opened on the outside world and the brightness of the day blinded me. It almost single-handily erased the experience.

My grandmother is the only reason that I carried my love of that film to this day. She was a constant reminder that one day I was going to be her Han Solo and fly across the universe.

I have spent more time in movie theaters than I have spent in love. It may not seem like much, but the selflessness of one grandmother has been the strongest magic I have ever known.