VISION

by Kayla Johnson

I was sitting on my bed, my mom called me, and I remember not wanting to pick it up… Diabetic shock, something that grammas DNR told them not to treat. She had four more days, max. I didn’t cry, not on the phone. I hung it up and I looked in the mirror, and it was one of the only times I’ve ever actually seen myself. Like when you’re crying, and you pass a mirror and really see what your face looks like, completely raw… Blonde hair that’s too long, one of the many things you can’t seem to let go of. High cheek bones that hide your blues eyes, the ones that are the same color as moms. One dimple, on your right cheek, opposite of the freckle on your left. The freckle that disappears when you smile but because of your frown, it’s completely visible, out in the open. Why have you never seen yourself like this before? She would never see your face again. Here come the tears. They don’t stop for days.

Three days later, 11:49 pm. I was wearing my favorite skirt, a dark purple fabric that hugged my hips. I had a green coffee cup, with red sangria in it, half an orange slice floating around. Sitting with 51 other orientation leaders, decompressing. It was loud, the way it gets when there’s too many people in a room, but I was comfortable, happy to be with them. I was sitting, crossed legged on the recliner. I had my phone in my hand, a picture of gram on the screen, telling them about her. My phone starts to vibrate, and my sisters face pops up, I don’t want to answer. I know what she’s going to say. My heart drops outside my body, I feel like I should be able to see it on the floor. Hello?…She’s gone. Hands help me to the ground, as my legs give out and the sobs start to escape my mouth, they had been stuck in there for too long. They drive me home in a red car, I tell them about her, in the past tense. Two hours of crying, phone calls, more crying. They’re here. Mom sits in the back seat with me while dad drives us home, my real home. Why do her hands know exactly how smooth my hair? Why isn’t she crying?

I wake up confused. Am I in my bed, my bed at home? Light purple walls, the can of paint said it was lavender. There’s green peaking out from underneath it, the color of your younger years. Wood trim and a very faded pink carpet, with glitter glue spots all over it. A light bulb with no light fixture and glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Dark blue blackout curtains. Definitely home. What time is it? My phone says 8:17, and there’s a dozen messages on the screen. I’m not sure how many more times I can read, I’m sorry for your loss. I try to cry but only a couple tears come out.

I walk the seventeen steps upstairs and see my mom on the couch with a cup of coffee. She smiles at me but doesn’t say anything, I don’t think she can. I make my coffee and pour in the creamer, way too much according to everyone else. I sit down next to her and she tells me that my sister has decided that she still wants to play in her soccer game. Its what gram would’ve wanted. She asks if I want to go. I ask her if everyone is going, she says yes. I start to say that I look like I’ve been crying all night, which I have. But as I look around at everyone in my house, I realize we all look the same. Our eyes are red and tired, our eyelids hanging halfway over our eyes. They’re puffy underneath and we can’t stop rubbing them. Every couple of minutes you hear someone sniffle. Trying to suck their tears back up. And just hearing that makes you sniffle.

We pile in cars and drive. The soccer field sits at the bottom of a big hill, we always set our chairs up at the top. I see my sister down there and for a brief second I see myself. In that old jersey, looking up the hill to see gram there, waving her hat in the air. When I snap out of it I look for her and her hat. But she’s not there. She’s not here. Instead what I see is an army. My whole family taking up the better half of the hill. We are sunglass warriors, hiding our puffy eyes from the crowd. We aren’t hiding because we are weak, we are hiding because we are strong. Because my gramma is what held us together, she was the glue, the strength. She never crumbled. And here we are, not showing the world our tears. Being strong for her. That was my split second of happiness, the only one I would experience for weeks. It was in that split second that I realized it was going to be okay. Gram may not be here, but she left an army of strong warriors behind, and together we’ll win the war on grief.

My name is Kayla Johnson, I’m 20 years old and from the very small town of Mount Vision, New York. I am a Junior at SUNY-ESF studying conservation biology and have a minor in environmental writing and rhetoric. I love writing, hunting and fishing, and spending time with family. I drink too much coffee and read too many books. In the future I hope to be teaching kids about nature and the environment, and to never stop writing.