Eyebrows Part Six

   The following is part of an original short story I wrote reflecting on memories of my late grandmother:

Another great story revolves around my mom’s freedom tattoo, as my parents had just separated and my father would never have tolerated my mom getting a tattoo. My cousin dared my mom to get a tattoo, a bet that my mom wouldn’t do it. My cousin had several tattoos at the time and has even more now. Well, my mom went through with it. The whole family, except my Grandma, went to the parlor, just to see if it would happen. My mom did go through with it. We then planned to go shopping, but has to go back to the apartment to do something for the tattoo, which I honestly don’t know what. We got there to find my Grandma on the floor in my aunt’s bedroom. She had gotten a new pair of pants and wanted to try them on to see how they looked. As she was short, she climbed onto the bed to see how they looks, but fell and broke her ankle. Something really bad could have happened to her, she could have had another heart attack, who knows what? But, since my mom got the tattoo and we had to go back to the apartment, we found my Grandma in time to prevent anything worse from happening. So, essentially, the tattoo saved my Grandma, possibly even her life.

At one point, my aunt had a cat. She was a very nasty cat who hated just about everyone. Oh, the scratches we all had, my God she shredded us. And on top of that, she was diabetic. Getting her shots always involved streams of blood. And yet, when my Grandma would go into the bathroom, that cat followed he in. Mind you the cat didn’t socialize with my Grandma, who could often walk out with a bloody are. On a side point, not relevant to the story but I feel will enhance the story is that cat chased me and waited for me to pass by it then intent to bite my ankles. It didn’t necessarily mean she wished good things for my Grandma, but she tolerated her.

            When my Grandma was eighty-five, she developed bone cancer. I was sixteen years old. My Grandma was brought to the hospital, and two months later she lost her fight. Strangely, at the time, in my opinion, I cried the day my Grandma was admitted to the hospital, but could find no tears on the day she died, but years later I came to the conclusion that I realized she was already gone and that her suffering was now over and she was now with her siblings and husband, which eventually made me happy.

            At the wake were me, my mother, my aunt, my uncle and my cousins. We thought that something was wrong with my Grandma’s face, and they pondered for hours. After three hours, my Aunt cried out, “Her eyebrows!” It was true. Though my Grandma was made up like she usually was, the mortician had forgotten to draw on her eyebrows. I had to fight not to laugh because my aunt was in hysterics and I would be in adjoining grave if I so much as smiled. This was quickly remedied, but they just could not draw on her eyebrows the way my Grandma did. I could almost hear her ghost screaming at the mortician for this mess-up.

            It can also be noted that she died on a “Puh.”

            Right before my Grandma’s casket was closed, I did the thing I hated most: I gave my Grandma a final kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Goodbye, Grandma. I love you and I’ll miss you forever.”

            I took upon myself to be a pallbearer and help carry my Grandma’s casket to the resting place.

            To this day, I still remember my Grandma for her love of sleazy romance novels and movies, her crazy, changing stories, and, perhaps most of all, her eyebrows.