Death

Death, the Final Frontier

The Star Trek writers had it wrong.

Alone on Pexels

Death, rather than space, is the final frontier. Death seemed far removed until my grandmother died when I was eleven. My extended family was enured with the open casket kind of funeral, but grandma was gone. The warm, animated smile was no more. Gone too was the fleshy embrace, although the scent of her favorite pink talcum powder remained. I remember shoveling drifts of the stuff when the family descended on the old folk’s house to paint, inside and out. I was assigned the bathroom, but the pink drifts of pink talcum had to be carted away before I could begin — the scent lingered.

Grand-ma was a large German woman who loved to cook, perhaps her default expression of love. As an adult, with a large extended family of my own, I look back amazed, no matter who showed up at gram’s on Sunday afternoon — there was always plenty of food. Pot roast was the mainstay, a delicious blend of vegetables, potatoes, beef, or pork, always smothered in rich gravy. Her fried chicken and white country gravy over mashed potatoes were dream-worthy. But it was the loss of desserts that I feared for the most. Would pie making become a lost art? Her homemade cinnamon rolls were awesome. To this day, I picture them overturned on their trays, dripping with white icing, set atop the big folding shelf of…