A fading light

When I visited in the summers, she made pecan tarts and carrot and raisin salad, two of my favorites.  When she came for Christmas, she always brought spiced pineapple and homemade chex snack mix.  One Spring Break in college, two friends and I drove to the Gulf Coast and stayed with Gran and Grandaddy.  She made chicken pot pie and stocked the fridge with cheap beer.

My grandmother has always expressed love through her food.  Red beans and rice.  Snickerdoodles.  Chess squares.  Cheese grits.  Coffee with chicory. And later, when I was of age to drink, Yellow Birds.

So it crushes me now to know that Gran is not eating.  Her body is systematically shutting down.  She is whisping away.  My mother says her stomach is distended and constantly gurgles, audibly from the bedroom to the den.

I cannot picture my grandmother's kitchen without her in it.  I cannot imagine her house without its savory aroma.

The cruelty of the situation is that she still has her mental faculties.  Certainly, she is forgetful but she is cognizant.  She understands what is happening.

The question is what do I understand?  What will my world be like when I can't pick up the phone and ask Gran for a recipe or guidance or just a tender word?  In truth of course, we don't talk about recipes anymore... our conversations are brief and consist mainly of reports on my children.  I did just ask her a few weeks ago if I could freeze cookie dough.  I know I could've ascertained that by using Google, but I wanted to ask Gran.  I wanted her to know that I still need her, still love her, still want her help.  I always will.

All words fail me.  What I wouldn't do for caramel cake right now.