Every Sunday my grandmother and I went to church, and then picked up and enjoyed lunch. I read my comics, she read the newspaper. Sometimes when I stayed over night to keep her company, I would watch her put on her make-up at the kitchen table before church. I remember everything about her as though it were yesterday . . . her laugh, her voice, her face. She hated living alone after my grandfather passed away.

     Many a night she’d ask me to stay and I didn’t mind. Sometimes at night I would hear footsteps walking up the basement stairs. This always kept me awake, too afraid to move. I remember thinking it could’ve been the furnace, or possibly her Siamese cat or even her dog Tuffy, but I knew in my heart it was my grandfather’s spirit watching over her and the house. And although this paranormal event happened quite often, I liked visiting and staying overnight. My family lived next door so I wasn’t far from home, and my mother thought it best and even sometimes suggested I stay with Grandma. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be alone, I would too if I were on my own after being contently married for so many years.

     I wasn’t what one would call a normal teenager. I preferred being a homebody that never went to parties and had no urge or reason to experiment with drugs or drinking. Not to say that all teens experiment, but the people I knew did, in fact they bragged about it during lunch period at school. Basically, I was living a boring teenage life, but had good reason: I was too busy helping out at home, seeing to my brother Johns’ needs. He could not manage to feed himself or tell us what he needed, and still can’t due to being multiply handicapped.

     Most of the teens I knew chattered in the hallways and in the cafeteria about partying at so-and-so's house on the previous or upcoming weekend, enjoying their youth, and getting into trouble, but I was the exception. I enjoyed staying home on the weekends, watching old movies, and going clothes shopping.

     My grades were average in high school, except for in drama and music class; these I excelled at. After all, I wanted to be an actress and singer.

     Everything seemed to be normal until one dreadful day my parents told me my grandmother had only six months to live — she had Pancreatic Cancer. My heart sank; my emotions overwhelmed me as tears simultaneously cascaded down my cheeks. I fled to my room and slammed the door, all the while trying to reason with myself that Grandma would be fine, God would heal her, or maybe chemo-therapy would work. I reasoned anything and everything possible my grandmother could go through to win the fight against cancer. Needless to say, I had a difficult time remaining optimistic. Eventually I managed to push the serious reality of her fate to the back of my mind, and coped with the bad news by keeping busy. I happily resigned myself in temporary denial that it wasn't too late for her to survive.

     As the months passed, I visited her nearly every day after school and prayed for God to heal my grandmother; then relied on faith. She was on heavy dosages of medication for the pain and was tube fed through her stomach. On one visit in particular, I went to see how she was. To my dismay she didn’t recognize me. I slowly backed out of the room and ran home crying. As much as it hurt me emotionally to not have my grandmother recognize me, I neglected to give it any further thought and went to school the next day as usual.

     I walked her dog every afternoon and prayed for a miracle. Then it happened. I couldn't believe the news when my parents told me she was sitting up in her wheelchair, asking me to come over to walk her dog! My mother said that she looked as though she was feeling well and that she seemed to be taking a turn for the better. I was so happy! At the moment, however, I was in the middle of something, and forgot to hang up the phone as I made a stink about not wanting to walk the dog. Back then I was always a little selfish when it came to doing things I wanted to do first, and I was not a dog lover, I loved cats and birds.

     I strode over to her house, put her dog on the lead, and then walked him for twenty minutes or so. After visiting a bit with Grandma, I went home to help take care of my brother. My mother stayed behind to help my grandmother and I remained hopeful that God had heard and answered my prayers.

     The next day, I had been to several classes thinking everything was great; my grandmother was going to beat the cancer. But in the afternoon, during my advanced art class, my father came in to talk to the nun who taught us. I couldn’t figure out why he came to school and then my worst fear settled in. Sister Margaret called me over to the door and there my dad stood, fighting back his emotions as he calmly delivered the news I dreaded hearing . . . my grandmother had just passed away. I fell to my knees, crying uncontrollably. It didn’t matter that there were senior boys in the class, or that I was being stared at by the one boy I had a crush on. Every prayer I had ever prayed was smashed to smithereens — my faith tenaciously shattered.

     Why? Why didn’t God listen? What did I do that was so horrible that he ignored my prayers? I felt betrayed and devastated by God and everyone around me.

     My father pulled me up off the floor and walked me down to the school office. My make-up was completely drenched from my tears and my nose severely stuffed as I signed out of school. As we walked outside to the car, I felt the weight of the world press down upon my shoulders like a boulder crushing every bone in my body.

     I started thinking about my younger cousins who were too young to understand death, and of my brother who had no way of understanding, seeing as he was born mentally retarded at birth because of a doctors' mistake in judgment.

     I was mad at God and unforgiving towards Him for taking my grandmother away from me and my family.

     “What good are prayers if God won’t answer them?” I asked my father on the way home.

     My dad remained silent. By the look on his face I could tell he wasn’t certain of what to do or say. A half an hour later we were back at my grandmothers’ house and although my father said nary a word, I knew he missed her too.

     We walked into the house and although the tears still fell from my eyes, I was at the point of being drained; my tears were down to a few at a time. I sat down with swollen, red eyes just as the funeral director came in to remove my grandmothers’ body. I had no idea she was still in the house and cupped my face into my hands.

     The funeral director carried my grandmothers' body past me and out of the house. She was wrapped in a white blanket like a cold child. I began to cry again. Why did I have to witness this?

     “I smell roses, don’t you?” My mother said, interrupting the sobs of the room. My aunt and uncle said they smelled the roses too. I smelled nothing.

     My grandmother always loved roses, especially yellow roses. Why couldn’t I smell anything? Perhaps I was too stuffed up in my nose from crying. Perhaps she didn’t want to say goodbye because I made a stink about walking the dog. To this day, I miss her often and wonder why she never said goodbye.

     Sometimes I have vivid dreams about seeing her again, as though she never passed away. Then, just when I begin celebrating her return, I wake up realizing that, that will never become a reality, at least not until it’s my turn to join the non-living.

     I’ve experienced seeing her in my dreams when I needed guidance, whether it's to get through another day of waiting for a reply from a manuscript submission, or just to answer my questions about things in life that affect me, like the ups and downs of choosing writing as a career.

     It’s been several years since I visited her grave, but I sincerely believe her spirit is not there. I believe Grandma’s spirit is walking hand in hand with my grandfather in heaven, and on occasion, with me and my family.

     Sometimes I drive by her old house to admire the yellow rose she planted several years ago, and every year it blooms infallibly. As for my shattered faith in God, I’ve come to terms with the fact that although my prayers weren’t answered in my and my family’s favor, Grandma was suffering, and God took that suffering away. Her death was the only way He could’ve healed her.

     I now know in my heart that, that was Gods’ plan whether I accepted it or not. The cold hard fact is this; we all can’t live forever, and the time we have is so minute when we’re here on earth, so rather then hold a grudge against God, I’ve forgiven Him for not healing her here on earth. I’ve chosen to live life, letting my loved ones know I love and care for them.

     It took me twenty years to be at peace with God and myself, yet my faith was always there, I just didn’t know it.