Poor, dead Grandma

My Grandma died on Thursday 23 of June.

She lived 87 years and died quickly.

She was able to spend her last 8 months in her own home because I stayed here with her, taking care of her.  Half a dozen people at the funeral thanked me for that.  Someone said I was a saint.  I don’t feel like a saint.  A saint would cry.  Some lady at the hospital told me how lucky I was to have had the chance to get to know her.  I don’t feel lucky either.  I didn’t get to know her that well.  I don’t think there was much to know.

She had a few friends.  She had a family.  She had a small life, but a long one.  It doesn’t seem like enough.  It doesn’t seem fair.  Poor Grandma.