Death and... - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

Death and I have spent our lives getting acquainted. My first introduction was when I peered under the farmhouse in Florida where houses are often mounted on blocks to keep them from moisture and creatures.

I went down on my knees in the sharp grass and peered into the dimness under there. Mama Kitty had given birth to a litter and my grandmother said they were dead. I saw my cat sitting up braced on her front feet, licking and licking down at a shapeless mass that was not moving. So that’s what it was: dark, mysterious, not quite visible, and no kittens to jump and play.

The next visit came when my grandfather died 2,000 miles away from us, we in New Mexico and he in Florida. My mother had gone to be there at his end, and I, about 7, alone in my room, knocked his photo over and it fell to the floor. ``Oh no,’’ and I cried, because I thought it had hurt him. When my father told he had died, I was sure I had brought him bad luck.

I felt the hand of death when I visited my grandmother in the hospital, I in college, and she in her bed. My mother had left the room and I was alone with my little roommate who had fussed at me for my untidiness.

``Grandma,’’ I said, touching her. ``Grandma!’’ I shook her arm and took her hand. I was shocked at how a dead hand feels, how life is so warm and gives a force, and energy, at the worst of its times, but this, this was no-longer-living tissue, round and plump as always, but heavy, without the translucence that the flow of blood brings to flesh. Empty. Gone. She was just gone.