She was 95 years old, unmistakably English, stubborn, sweet, pocket-size. She told stories about the past that got more elaborate each time, but the unchanging factor was that she always starred in them.
Her mind had been on the way out for years. I hadn't visited her since the worst of it, and I don't know if she recognized who the Chanukah and birthday cards were coming from. I hope she did. I always included a recent photo with my brother's and my names on the back, hoping it would strike the match.
When I was in middle school, Grandma Rosa came to grandparents' day in her favorite black-and-white zebra-print shirt with a matching purse she'd made herself by weaving the extra fabric from the shirt through the chain handle. She was a huge hit. My friends and their parents and grandparents talked about her for years afterward.
Sometime—I don't remember how long ago—before she moved from her Sheffield apartment into a nursing home closer to my uncle and his family in Leeds, we took a long walk on the moors together. She wore a little wooly hat and kept reciting these lines by Christina Rossetti as we moved slowly, Grandma pace, along the path:
Does the road go uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Yes, to the very end.
Last night, she went into the hospital with pneumonia. The same thing happened last year; she made it through. This time, she didn't. She lived a long time and died quietly in her sleep.
I'm not sure what else to say except that I haven't seen my Grandma Rosa in five years, and tomorrow afternoon I'm getting on a plane to England to go say goodbye. Only part of my heart thinks it's too late.
