Confrontation
By: Kimi; New York, New York, USA
The week before she dies, my grandmother
visits me in the night: it’s the summer, and
we are at the house as usual with the family.
I’m coming in from the back deck and she’s
coming out from the kitchen. We meet in the
middle, hugging over the threshold.
I don’t remember what I say to her. Something like,
You’re here, or, You’re back. More likely, You are
the way you used to be. When I wake up
it’s November and she’s on her way out the
door. I know this will be the last time I see
her, even before my mother calls. Later in
my appointment I say that it’s strange:
normally, when someone dies, there is
something to confront, a funeral,
a breakdown, five stages of something at
least. But now talking to God is like shouting
into a well, hearing only my own questions
amplified back. Are you there? I ask. Waiting
for a sign. The thing about losing someone
is you lose them; you don’t know where they go.
I expect to feel haunted, but I can’t find her yet—
in the well, in the air, in the soil—
so I return to the house. She’s on
her side of the threshold. I can’t see them,
but in the other room people are talking. I’d like
to think, wherever she is, that it’s still summer.
Are you still there? She laughs, her eyeliner
crinkling at the corners. I can almost smell
her hair. Yes, she says. I am.
Kimi is a writer and journal publishing coordinator from New York. She studied English and American literature, creative writing, and French at New York University.
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