It wasn’t until we were in the truck and moving that I really noticed it. Those eyes. They looked so, so much like my grandma’s. The same cool, celery green that turned that softly blued in low light. I was torn between wanting to stare at those eyes for the duration of this trip, and wanting to look anywhere else.

Those eyes remained closed, mostly. When they did open, they pulled at my heart, reminding me both of the happier memories and the harder good byes. Her gaze drifted around the truck, never really focusing on anything. I couldn’t help but wonder if my grandma did the same thing when she rested on that very same cot, taking this very same journey. I absentmindedly wriggled my hand into hers and lightly squeezed. She very gently squeezed back. We continued on in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

Her lips moved, forming words I couldn’t quite read or hear. Her gaze still hung around me, not at me. I leaned closer, struggling to hear over the road noise. I asked her to repeat herself. She spoke just a little louder, but not quite loud enough. I asked one more time. She squeezed my hand. Quietly, shakily, but certainly, she answered.

“I see angels.”

My heart thudded in my chest. I asked, “What?” more out of disbelief than not hearing her correctly. She repeated herself.

“I see angels.”

It was reassuring, and shaking. Comforting, and shocking. Instilling hope and unease. I’ve seen people die. I’ve heard a loving last testament, spoken with the hope it would be passed on to those who were held dear. But this, for some reason, came as more of a shock. I don’t know what I do or don’t believe in. Maybe that’s why I can’t figure out how this feels.

To this day, I don’t know what to make of it, or my feelings around it.

Speak Your Mind