The Day Grandma Died

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My mom’s mom died on a day that should have been a day of rejoicing. She passed away in the early hours of March 17, 1964. That’s right, it was St. Patrick’s Day. I recall that morning commencing as usual, with my desire to see Grandma before departing for school. I experienced an unusual sensation that day when Mom informed me that Grandma was still asleep. I just knew something wasn’t right. I came home from school, and in the kitchen was my old nanny, and when I saw her—don't ask me how a seven-year-old knows these things—but I knew for sure that Grandma was no longer on this earth. My nanny didn’t say a word about Grandma to me; I guess she wanted my parents to do it. So I took a piece of pound cake and a glass of milk and lay down on the living room rug and watched afternoon cartoons. However, this sad and unbelievable feeling didn’t leave me for a moment. Then Mom and Dad came home. I can imagine how difficult it was for them to arrange a funeral while everyone else was celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. You know, to this day I don’t remember exactly what they said to me but I just know that I was so unhappy. They didn’t take me to the funeral because they felt I was too young. Grandma was cremated and her urn was sent back to Latvia, and she is buried in the Meza, or Wood, Cemetery. After all, this was her homeland, and she wanted to rest in her native soil. I know that she is up above and watching over me. Photo of me and grandma