Last time at grandma's house

Walking into my grandma's new home, I was weary of the medical smell usually encountered in places like this.

Instead, when the door slid open, I was pleasantly surprised with fresh linen and the nurse's perfume when she walked by me. That still didn't distract me from the fact that these places always depressed me -- they seemed so final and so inescapable, as if those living there were throwing in the towel and simply waiting for the inevitable.

My sister and I quietly glided past rooms filled with blank stares and game shows on full volume until we reached room 108, where my grandma was taking a quick nap before we came.

She woke up and looked at us with a big smile, telling us how happy she was that we were there. I hugged her and thought about how selfish I was for not visiting her more often. It had been two years.

Before long, she was leading us through the fluorescent hallways, introducing us to anyone she could. But there were specific friends she wanted us to meet -- like Dan, who turned off his Cardinals game and told us how he used to live up north. And Helen, who said she was glad to have my grandma around to talk to, although she wished it had been under better circumstances.

Grandma finally said she wanted to leave for a little while so that she could show us her old house, which the Caruthersville tornado had rendered uninhabitable and now had to be demolished. We piled into my sister's car and took off down the road, where the city's destruction became sudden and devastating. One side of town remained untouched, the branches unbroken and the shingles unscathed. Then there was my grandma's side of town, where homeowners picked up what little they had left as gawkers like us slowly drove by and watched them with sad fascination.

We soon arrived at the torn and empty shell of my grandmother's home. The century-old pecan tree that fell through her roof was now nothing but a massive pile of chopped wood laying in her front lawn. She told us how much she was going to miss that tree. A blue tarp covered the gaping hole over her living room, while windows were boarded up with cheap plywood and her birdhouse dangled in defeat.

She looked at a patch of flowers growing behind her hail-damaged garage and told us how beautiful they were. The backyard that was once filled with hedges and tall shady trees was now bare, exposing our eyes to other lost homes. She pointed to the single dogwood she had left and said what a strong tree it must have been.

As we walked around her house, I remembered every room and wondered how dark and lonely it was on the inside. The rooms full of memories, both good and bad, were soon going to be bulldozed and sold for scrap. My grandma watched her children grow in there. She had Thanksgivings and Christmases in there.

She watched her husband succumb to Alzheimers in there. She ate breakfast and slept and read books about birds in there. The rooms she lived in for 60 years were now condemned; unsteady and ready to crumble.

When we were walking back to the car, she stopped and gave her house one final, admiring look.

"I suppose this is the last time we can all play at grandma's," she said.

And that's when it hit me. The effects of time and life changing before my eyes was becoming more apparent as I grew older, and I refused to accept that. I may have not been to my grandma's house much in the past few years, but the sheer idea of it being there for me when I needed it was what comforted me. And now it was gone, leaving me to adjust.

When we arrived back at the nursing home, we walked her to her room, and she reminded us of how happy she was in her new home. She said it was her time to be there anyway and now she has her friends to keep her company. Not once did I hint a sense of sadness or negativity in her voice. She told us she was better off there. To her, a nursing home is just what she needed.

Perhaps I can now look at them in a whole new light.

After that day, although I saw mangled homes, families with no place to go, and lives torn apart, I just remembered how beautiful those flowers were in my grandma's backyard. And it made everything seem a little bit better.

Contact Sam at sdereign@semissourian.com