the long way home

That long drive to my grandmother’s place felt like eternity — or better yet, as though I would never arrive. My grandmother lived in a nursing home: old, wrinkled-faced, in a wheelchair, without her family by her side. My parents visited once a month, bringing her the food she liked, clothes she missed, or simply the company she needed. We all treated it like a chore.

Although I prayed for her every night, I was sitting high on my self-righteous horse, riding toward my own perfect castle. I didn’t really care. I had things to do, places to go, dreams to chase. I was so focused on myself that I rarely thought about her—except before sleep, when I’d whisper a quick prayer and feel good about myself. I did my part, right?

When she died, I was… okay. I told myself I barely knew her. I had spent my childhood in her house, eating her delicious cakes and brownies, yet I had never truly asked her Who are you? What interests you? What do you love? I was a spectator—quiet, polite, never bothering anyone with my own thoughts.

The last time I saw her, she pinched my leg and asked, “How are you?” “Fine,” I said. “And you?” That question still echoes in my mind. Of course, she wasn’t fine. She was frail, gray-haired, almost blind, and missing both legs. But I didn’t see that. I only saw my own reflection in her glasses.

When I said goodbye that day, I didn’t know it was the last time. A few days later, she was gone.

At her funeral, each family member carried a red rose to throw onto the casket. One by one, in silence, the roses fell like drops of tears on the wooden lid. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath, whispered, “Bye, Grandma,” and let mine fall too. I didn’t care who heard me.

The drive back from the funeral felt like eternity. 

Only this time, I knew why.

Because eternity is what it feels like when you realize you’ll never have another chance to say I love you.

Mateja