Granny the 'Ho has gone on to her reward. Although the whole tale is long and rather Faulknerian, the ending is nice.
A day or two before Granny died, the chaplain and the nurse both told my mother that Granny was afraid to die because she didn't think she deserved forgiveness. Mother called her brothers to tell them they had a job to do. The California brother didn't have a problem with forgiving Granny although he suddenly spazzed out at the thought that his mother was fixing to die - like it was a damn surprise when hospice had been visiting the house three times a week since February. The other brother needed convincing, but mother told him that she didn't care if he lied -- he better fucking forgive Granny or she could linger for weeks barely conscious. Fortunately, Granny wasn't in any pain, but she couldn't see well enough to read the soft porn, bodice rippers she loved or watch Wheel of Fortune, The Price is Right and The Food Network. She just rested in the hospital bed they had moved into her room and rubbed a Joel Olsteen book. Enough already.
The day she died, both her sons called to say they forgave her for ditching them to run off with a man back when they were all kids in North Carolina. As it happened, that day was also my birthday. My family has never let little things like geography stand in the way of birthday cake, so since my sister was in Houston visiting my parents, they baked me a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Granny hadn't eaten in a couple of days, but she perked up for the cake.
It was the last thing she ever ate. The night nurse, Bernadette, put frosting on her pinkie finger and Granny sucked it off like a baby. That night she died in her sleep.
We might all go to Tahoe next summer to spread her ashes. In the meantime, I told everyone I wanted a quarter cup of Granny to keep for myself.
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