Nothing scars you more than hearing a death rattle. I envy you if you’ve never had to hear a loved one knocking on death’s door. I could hear her praying for each of my family members, one by one, in between the sounds of gargles and grasps for air. It was almost like she was going through a mental rolodex of all the people she loved, giving her final goodbyes and asking God for protection over them. Paralyzed in the bed a room over, I was too afraid to move. The doctors prepared me for this, Granny had been released from hospice care weeks earlier, she preferred she end it at home, in the house she worked so hard to own. With the rest of the family occupied with their own grown-up lives and responsibilities, it was up to the teenager on winter break to make her comfortable.

With one final breath she was gone. I always regret that I wasn’t strong enough to get out of bed and hold her hand as she slipped away. Knocking on the door, I was hoping to get a response but deep down I knew she was gone. I moved closer to her bed, I remember her body looking so stiff, but there was a slight grin on her face, Granny was at peace.

  The house was eerily quiet, only the creaks of her hardwood floor echoed in the house as I tiptoed to the bathroom to gather what was left of her oxycodone. I snuck a few pills here and there hoping she didn’t notice, but this time I stashed the bottle, she wouldn’t miss them. In fact, she barely took them, which at the time I never could understand why, but soon I would be let in on the big family secret.

It was just before sunrise. I made a few key phone calls to alert the troops. I found the number that was jotted on a piece of paper taped to the fridge, “Hello, yes, E____ B_____ has passed away.” I signaled for the coroner to retrieve her body, it was all so business like and straight to the point. The next few hours were a bit of a blur. I only remember people coming in and out, her lifeless body being escorted out on a stretcher, I had to put on a happy face, which wasn’t hard because I popped some of the stashed oxy earlier.

The days that followed were oddly uplifting. Family, friends, and coworkers all drove for miles to come pay their respects. They shared stories, they cooked her favorite meals and just laughed, it was like a scene from the movie “Soul Food”.  I could remember laughing to myself, “This is so cliché.”

There was business to handle though, my pops, brother, and I started to pack some of her keepsakes to give to her loved ones. We stopped for a break. It was just us, her boys. My pops leaned back in his chair, “She was so strong, she went through so much and never stopped trying”. Her motto was “I did my very best”, she would always say that, it was always a throwaway line to me, just another mantra in between bible verses.

My pops said, “She was the strongest women I ever knew, even when she used to smoke crack she was always there, you would never know.” I snuck a look to my brother who nodded his head in agreeance, so nonchalant. I looked back and forth at both of them waiting for the punchline. My teenage brained exploded and I blurted out, “My nigga, CRACK?!”