I left a message for my grandmother.
It rang three times, then a woman who wasn’t my grandmother spoke on the phone and told me that the person you are trying to reach was not available now, and at the tone to please record a message.
I knew she wouldn’t pick up.
It was midnight in Oregon which meant it was two am in Tennessee.
I left a message for my Grandma.
I told her I love her,
and I’m sorry I didn’t call as much.
And I missed her.
I’m sorry I didn’t call.
I left a message for my grandmother hoping I’d hear her voice on the answering machine,
and not some strange, automated woman’s.
Instead, I cried.
I sobbed on the phone, hoping my tears would reach Heaven even though I’m not as religious as I used to be,
or at all.
I sobbed and said I was sorry I didn’t call until it was too late.
It wasn’t later until I realized it had been a month.
A month since mom texted me that grandma was in the hospital with a 50% chance of recovery.
A month since I prayed harder than I had in years, hoping
begging she’ll recover.
A month since I found out that Patricia Anne Young passed away in the early hours of Thursday, March 7, 2024.
It had only been three weeks since her service.
She didn’t want a funeral because she didn’t want sad tears after her death, but I couldn’t help it, and I clutched the teddy bear she gave me when I was born in the church while the pastor said a prayer for her, and my mom and dad and cousin held me.
Three weeks since we went to her empty house,
cleared out her fridge,
picked out things we wanted to take home.
I walked through every room, hoping she’ll be there.
I saw the book she had been reading before her passing.
Sitting on her coffee table, her last spot bookmarked with the dust jacket, barely 100 pages in.
I placed a hold on that book from the library.
And now, last Sunday night,
a month after her passing,
I left a message she’ll never hear.
E. A. Young Writes 