On a day of quiet contemplation and prayer, the shrill ring of the telephone on Easter Monday was a bullet I never saw coming.
What I’d feared most about this pandemic had come true. My grandmother — vibrant, charismatic and with the ferocity of a gladiator — had passed away.
I can’t even imagine what one calls it when they’re already down to the bone and knows they can’t be cut any deeper. Somehow, I had to find a way to stitch myself together and try not to crumble with the force of mourning a kindred spirit; someone who understood the hardship of living with physical limitations because she, too, was disabled.
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