My Auntie Grace died this morning. She was 88 years old.
It isn't as though we didn't know that this was coming. She's been in and out of the hospital for the past few months. When my grandma called me last week to tell me that she didn't think Grace was going to make it, I knew that the end was near--grandma never admits that someone might die.
Grace was a tough old bird, the way I guess people named Grace are supposed to be. She always spoke her mind, and her marked resemblance to the wicked witch of the west made her a terror to every kid that she came across. And even though in later years her mind went a little muzzy, people were still afraid of her. I think she liked that.
I'm very worried about my grandma, who has come through much but has, for the last few years, spent a lot of time caring for her sister. She's a tough old bird too, but I worry about what will come along and undermine her. I'm afraid of losing her.
Goodbye, Auntie Grace. May there be no small yapping dogs wherever you end up next.
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