Pink rose

I rubbed your old feet just the other day. I hope it brought you some comfort as you groaned and winced in your hospice-issued bed while we waited for the morphine to take effect. I hope that, if only for a few moments, your 91-year-old feet felt good. Loved. Looser and freer like they did when you were younger. Before disease crept into your mind and body. Before you watched as your siblings and husband died throughout these last years. Before your feet took you to their funerals and graves, leaving you feeling lonely.

Your feet have walked you through a long and full life. Carried you through your childhood on the farm, through school, marriage, jobs, and three pregnancies. They helped you chase after your children, and later, your grandchildren, and even later, they helped you to hold and bounce your great-grandchildren on your knees. How many hours did your feet spend standing in the kitchen? Cooking delicious food for your family, your children’s families, and their families, too? All the cooking, cleaning, caring, playing, bathing, dressing, diapering, working, shopping, and living that those feet have helped you do have made so many people happy.

Your feet have not been used for standing or walking for several days now, and they never will again. For now, for a little longer, we share the same world, but soon you will move on. I am grateful, as is my mom, as are my children, for all that you have done for us. Please know that we will love you forever, Gramma.

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