I looked into the room and I see her staring into worlds unknown. I do not know her and she does not know me. We have been apart of each other's lives for years, but have missed the essence. She is lying peacefully sleeping eternally. I have seen her in this state before. I have seen her many times sleeping within death's grasp, but now she is owned by endless slumber.

Grandma and I have a history together. Within the last few years not memories of love or kindness or of the grandparent-kind. Our history will always bring memories of sadness, melancholy, and frustration. I love my Grandma because of what we were, because of what we had, because of what we shared. However, with age and maturity our situations have changed. I am no longer the little granddaughter that would spend hours in awe sifting through her enormous collection of QVC jewelry. I am no longer the granddaughter that could be occupied searching through her yard sale findings. I am no longer the granddaughter hidden away in a ditch or under a tree by the powers of a pink sheet she gave me. I am no longer the granddaughter whose affections could be bought with materialism.

The days that I spent with Grandma in her old age allow me to see how she truly was and what she truly was not. I saw her frailty and I saw her weakness. I saw her complacency and I saw her fear. It was in those days that I spent with her that I lost my respect for her because of what she could not be, because of what she could not understand, because of why she could not be strong.

After hours of driving through my least desired countryside of cornfields and bleak vastness I finally arrive to Union City, TN, a town I have never had fondness for always sneaks upon me. West Tennessee known for its delicious BBQ and fried catfish and wonderful sweat corn has struck me as being the armpit of Tennessee compared to the rest of the state. No uniqueness or fascinating beauty to be admired. No cascading streams or rolling hills. No mystic mountains or overgrown forests. Merely flatness of the most annoying kind because nothing ever changed. Whether is the spring or winter the landscape has always seemed the same.

Being raised on vacations spent in the mountains on the rivers one can understand Union City did not hold any allure to me. In fact, I felt sorry for the kids who had to grow up there, but I felt pride for my father who escaped to live in far richer parts of the country.

"We picked them up at the river," was Grandma's most over used explanation for her visiting granddaughters. To visit Grandaddy and Grandma one of my parents would meet half way to Union City, most often near the Tennessee River off Interstate 40. However, as Grandaddy got older the rendezvous moved closer and closer to Union City. I would spend a week or two going to the nursing home where Grandma volunteered or meeting a neighborhood kid I had nothing in common with or visiting a strange smelling neighbor or attending church or shopping where Grandma graced me with gifts or going to the city playground. When I grew older I lost my patience with the town searching for excuses not to go. As a teenager Union City was hardly the happening place and I became more reclusive towards my grandparents.

Grandaddy passed away when I was sixteen, tens years to the month before Grandma's passing. Since that time Grandma's health had slowly deteriorated. Not long after Grandaddy's death Grandma was diagnosed with Parkinson's. She was able to spend the first five years alone, but with no one to cook for my plump grandma soon lost many pounds. Parkinson's was playing its toll on Grandma's driving and she was not able to care for herself easily. Since none of her children lived close and Grandma refused to leave Union City it was decided to place her in an assistant living home where my father frequently visited her.

Early in the spring of 2003 it was decided by my aunt, uncle, and father that it was best to sell Grandma's house. Because I was in between jobs, they asked me if I would be willing to sell all her possessions by way of yard sale. I agreed.

With a hint of resistance tugging with past memories I drove to Union City in preparation of the yard sale. First I had to organize the items to sell, then with Grandma's help and approval we priced the selections. The following was a complete disaster. Realization gripped Grandma when she finally understood everyone wanted to barter for her life's possessions. She fought for each item that was desired accusing me of selling things too cheap. Hysteria possessed Grandma. She was becoming the crazy woman down the street. I was the money hungry granddaughter. Finally, a neighbor agreed to return Grandma to the assistant home and there was peace. Within three days I sold 50 years of memories for a little more than eight hundred dollars. For Grandma my actions were never forgotten and never forgiven.

A few months later Grandma had an urinary infection causing her to constantly seek the restroom. On two separate occasion during the action she slipped and broke each arm. Until the family could make arrangement for evening supervision I was asked to attend her any way that I could. During the three nights I stayed in Union City I received little sleep. At night averaging every 20 minutes Grandma pursued the toilet for relief requiring myself to assist for a success assent and descent. By chance I had fallen asleep I was quickly awoken by the wailing, blood curling shouting that would disturbed the deepest of sleepers. I would try my best to calm Grandma attempting every method possible to sooth her. I would read scripture from the Bible to offer as strength. I struggled to remember old hymns that I thought she would enjoy to provide peace. However, my most faithful tool was the voice of Eddy Arnold, her beloved boyfriend heard on the radio across the country during the 1950s. Every time she heard his voice she stopped the crying to sing along. Because I did not have the patience nor the kindness that summer tainted my view of how I viewed my Grandma from there on.

Not long after Grandma's injury dementia overtook her mind where she had to be moved to a nursing home in Nashville so Dad could take better care of her affairs. Though Grandma's memory was crisp dementia dominated her personality for periods sometimes creating unrecognizable sentences with wailing and total stubbornness. Every visit I made I could tell she still had resentment towards me for selling her life and being apart of her most physically painful occurrence. I was remembered with distain.

To acknowledge this does not pain me because the grandma I once knew had died with my grandaddy. The woman half blind and angry and confused I will not remember. I do not know her nor did I wish to. Old age leaked weakness and bitterness. I want to remember her for her smiles and love.

The door to the outside opened exposing us all to a great light. As if Grandma was floating the pallbearers released her to the blinding brightness. Gloom had overtaken Union City creating the perfect environment for a death. Rain became heavy as we carefully tip-toed to avoid mud at the cemetery. A short prayer was spoken and then it was over. We did not watch the vault sealed. We did not watch the body descend. We merely walked away in the rain.

Later that day I returned to the grave site. The tent and chairs had disappeared. The coffin that had been rained upon ealier was missing. All that was left behind was a mound of dirt with a few flower arrangements lying on top and the stone containing a birth date and death date to eternalize her life.

The last few times I visited Grandma at the nursing home I often came upon a living corpse. To awaken her from her trance the best method was to play her Eddie Arnold tapes. Suddenly, as if receiving air for the first time Grandma would beam mimicking the singer's favorite notes like a wolf howling in agreement to the moon. As much as I could tell, during her last days Eddie Arnold was her only source of joy sweeping peace across her soul.

Death does not scare me nor does it grieve me particularly when it involves my grandparents because I know there is a better place for them to rest and not grow old. Grandma was not an affectionate woman never uttering the words, "I love you," to me, but I never doubted her love. She just had her own way of demonstrating her love. I demonstrated mine by wearing a black dress to the funeral I found in her attic stuffed away in a trunk. I like to think she once wore it and I commemorate her image in some way. Like, I represent the elegance everyone would love in her.

Grandma's funeral was rather unemotional and brief. This is not how I want my last memories of her to be. I make a memory for myself: I imagine myself sitting beside her grave right before they lower her body. From among the sky a voice announces Eddie Arnold as his crooning echoes though the countryside turning into a high-pitch yodeling. Then I can imagine Grandma's eyes pop open in excitement. Eddie Arnold continues to sing encouraging Grandma to pucker her lips and join the harmony. The body begins to descend all while the two are mesmerized by song. The music of their souls are collaborating in death. I can see Grandma smiling as the sounds grow fainter. As the earth is being filled the music continues to a barely audible humming. Eddie Arnold beckons my grandma deeper and deeper below to an endless sleep that now comforts her.