Of a Skeleton in My Closet

I've never talked about this.

Some people's high school experiences are full of proms and school and friends.  I praise my parents that they made an effort to give me that in spite of the circumstances.

This post is about judgement.

She moved in when I was thirteen.  A witty, generous, beautiful woman, with brown hair that went to her waist and crystal clear blue eyes.  The light kind.  The kind that laughed.  But she was sick.  

And for awhile it was fine.  But then it really wasn't.  

Oh how I judged her.  How I saw her flaws.  We took such good care of her, how could she hide herself in her room and cry all the time.  Didn't she want to be with her family?  Why was she so ungreatful?

Now, looking back, I remember her giving money to the homeless without fail.  Now I remember her style.  Now I think of the things she gave me.  Strength.  Boldness to think differently and live differently.  Where I saw depression then, now, I only remember her love.

Oh how I judged her.  I said she didn't know God.  But this woman prayed deep in her heart and loved powerfully.  

Some people's highschool experiences were full of like and parties and experimentation.  Mine was full of changing adult diapers and spoon feedings.

She was sad all the time.  

"Are you scared?"

Her perfect eyes filled and her lip quivered. 

"Yes."

I held her hand.  What do you say?  How do you say it's gonna be ok when it's not gonna be ok?  That you both know that in a few short months she'll be gone.

Her fear terrified me.  

I wish I'd known how wrong I was then.  To assume disgratitude for our kindness when in truth it was fear of the end.  How could I have been so insensitive?

You may have thought I didn't talk a lot in highschool.  You might have thought I was awkward and assumed it was cause I was homeschooled.  

I didn't talk or try to be outgoing to new people cause I was busy thinking about the death I was observing take place in the room next to me.  

But I felt your judgement keenly.

As she felt mine.  

This loving, beautiful, brave woman who loved deeply and didn't put up with other people's shit.  This woman who was wounded and frightened.  

I held her hand.  When she couldn't cry anymore.  And she'd chew carrots and spit them out cause her throat didn't work anymore.  Every day I held her hand.  And wept.  I needed to be home to hold her hand.

It happened when I wasn't home.  Having a social life.  I was eighteen.  

Resolutions are for New Years not Thanksgiving.  But I'm making one.  Let me never judge another person's heart.  I will suspend my judgement and try to see how they see, and feel how they feel.

Maybe then I can love how my Grandmother loved.