‘I never worry’, she says with conviction. Her voice so strong and sure while her body is frail and weak. She smiles her beautiful smile as we light the candles on the cake. We sit her up in her hospital bed, she takes a big breath but she doesn’t exhale. Then, slowly she releases the air from her lungs with a sigh and says ‘remember what I said, I never worry’.

Gently she falls back onto her pillow. The candles still burning on the cake. Her love light still burning in the world.

Deep sigh.

What is wrong, What have I done?

Done to myself, Done to my life, I’m done.

I should’ve lived when I had the chance. When I wasn’t so old I couldn’t stand. When I had eyes to see the world And a mind to take it in. Should’ve reached forward and called for help, Before my soul was spread so thin.

I should’ve run and leapt, Never letting myself fall cause even if i did, I’d still soar among the stars. But what’d I do instead? Now I can’t get far at all.

I should’ve looked up from where I stood. Could’ve wandered off the path. Made my own, then ambled back. Instead I stayed so still, you’d think I couldn’t breathe. Sitting down, not even trying. Rethinking now, I might be crying.

I should’ve asked for help. If it weren’t for my pride. I wanted to do it on my own, but I couldn’t use the hand by my side. Determined gets you nowhere, If you don’t even try.

What is wrong, What have I done? I close my battered eye.

“No comment,” the girl says in a wobbly voice, flashes illuminating her tear-stained cheeks. As she pushes through clamouring reporters and fans, cameras follow closely behind, accompanied with the babble of paparazzi questions.

“Who are you visiting today?”

“When was the last time you spoke to Zachary Carter?”

“Has your recent role in Black Emeralds affected your mental health?”

“When is Mackenzie Faye due to begin—”

“No comment,” she repeats, more firmly this time, shoving away a microphone stuffed in her face by an influencer. Her security press through the mob, clearing a path for her to walk. As she ascends the steps of the building, she wants nothing more than to dissolve into a puddle and sink through the ground. She enters the building, flashing her visitor’s ID at the receptionist and striding away from the glass doors.

As soon as she’s certain there are no photographers around she breaks into a run, flying down corridors in a daze as nurses jump aside, startled by the sobbing mess making a dash for the left wing.

She doesn’t need to see to know her way; she’s walked this path too many times before. Fresh tears pool in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she stumbles blindly forward until she stops outside of an all-too familiar door.

There’s only one space occupied in the room, in the far corner next to a window overlooking a bleak construction site. She dabs furiously at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat and walks towards the bed, drawing the partition curtain closed and lowering herself into the armchair. A withered hand lies next to her, hooked up with tubes to multiple machines beeping away.

Slowly, she takes those frail fingers in her own and trails circles upon the warm skin, feeling her wet eyes prickle. The hand twitches and she looks up, almost gasping with relief to see her grandmother’s eyes gazing back at her.

“Nana,” she says, tears escaping her eyes for the hundredth time that day. “Happy birthday. The big 100. Nana, how are you?”

“These machines don’t give me a break. Beep beep beep all day, no stopping. Doesn’t help my sleeping,” her grandmother retorted, her voice so weak, yet still carrying her familiar disdain at all things that disturbed her naps.

“Nana, that’s a good thing. The machines tell me you are doing okay,” she lets out a half-laugh, half-sob, feeling her grandmother’s shaky grip tighten around her hand.

“And how is Mackenzie and Zachary?” her grandmother asks, her eyes crinkling fondly the way they always did when her granddaughter’s friends were mentioned.

She lets her hand drop and brings out a bouquet and a purple box as she answers. “I got you flowers, and Zach bought you chocolate, Nana. Roses and the Cadbury Milk Tray, your favourite. And Mackenzie is in Singapore for her modelling event, but she sends all her love.” She watches as her grandmother gingerly takes the bouquet and breathes in the smell.

“This is so beautiful. Make sure you tell Zachary thank you. Have I ever told you about your mother’s love for roses, how she used to…” She has, many times. But she sits listening patiently anyway, because whenever her grandmother begins to speak of her deceased daughter, she seems happy, and that smile means more than anything in the world.

“…and that’s why I love roses.” Her grandmother pauses to draw in a few breaths, and she feels her chest tighten, remembering the joyful soul her grandmother used to be, so full of life and adventure. The woman in front of her is merely a shell of her previous self, but her heart is still bursting with the same love.

“That’s a beautiful story, Nana,” she says, squeezing her grandmother’s hand lightly. “I love hearing you talk.”

“And I love having you there to listen, my child. I always said you would make a lovely therapist. You always know what to say.” But that isn’t true, she thinks. There were too many times when she had felt lost for words; and some of those times had cost her painfully.

“Nana, you know I love acting. Although I wish I had more time to come see you,” she admits guiltily, holding her grandmother’s gentle gaze.

“Well, it’s good you came to see me today, so I can give you the news myself,” her grandmother changes the subject now. Her voice is suddenly grave, and that sinking feeling returns again, churning in the pit of her stomach, dragging her down—

“No.”

Her grandmother nods, once. Confirming her biggest fear.

“No. No, don’t say that.” Her words come in rushes, her breathing quickens; her airways tightening, that suffocating feeling that cuts off—

“I’m sorry, my child. It was decided this morning.”

“No, they can’t do this, I can convince them not to, I-I can speak to someone! I promise I can fix it!” Her grandmother leans forward to grasp her hand, wincing with the effort.

“My child, there is no fixing to be done. It wasn’t the doctors who made the choice today.” Realisation crashes over her and the air is suddenly poisonous, but she gasps for it like a drug. Everything is spiralling, the room slowly fading out of focus, the only thoughts in her head a chorus of “No, no, no.”

“They’re coming in soon,” her grandmother tells her gently, taking both hands in hers. “I love you, my child. Take care of yourself for me, yes?”

“Nana, please. I can’t do this without you,” she sobs. “I promised you a house overlooking the beach. We were going to live together again, Nana, I promised you.”

Her grandmother smiled for the final time, a sad smile that lifted the room. “My child, what have I said about making promises you can’t keep?”

The desperate scream that came from the mouth of the girl as she was dragged away from the hospital room haunts the corridors at night.

He had been living without her now for 23 years, and everyone wondered how. He still demanded that we set her a place at the dinner table, even sometimes serving her a small portion and spooning it delicately into the air. He never let us give away her clothes, or throw away her expired makeup, or even fix the crooked family photo that she had hung when they bought the house so long ago. He spoke to her aloud as though she was a part of every conversation, frequently reminding us not to leave her out of our discussions. There had been many times in the last 23 years when we thought we were going to lose him too. Month-long hospital stays, bed rest and oxygen tanks. Mom had the funeral home on speed-dial, all of his arrangements made. She even knew what songs would be played at the service. She’d known for 15 years. I remember Mom saying to him once, when he was just barely clinging on to life, “We’ll be ok, if you’re ready to go home to Susanna, you can go.” He had chuckled hoarsely, his breath shallow but his face alight, “Let me ask Susie and see what she thinks,” then a moment of silence, followed by, “She said it’s not time to go yet.” Today, we gathered around his bedside, Mom toting a German-chocolate cake in her arms with three candles on it- a one and two zeros. We weren’t going to light them, I knew. Even if Grandpa somehow had the strength to blow them out, he had never liked that tradition. He once joked that the 9 candles on my backyard birthday cake would start a forest fire if I wasn’t careful. Uncle Rod tried to set a gift down on the bed, but grandpa started coughing horrendously, shaking the bed and tightening Mom’s grip on the cake. He wagged a crooked finger at Rod, whispering as he regained his breath, “You should know that spot is for Susie.” Everything was always for Susie. Once the song was sung, the cake cut and gift bags strewn on the floor, the family spilled out and mingled around the house, and I found my way to Grandpa’s bedside. He was gripping the bedsheets of the empty place next to him, the place where his wife always used to sleep. He smiled as he twirled the fabric back and forth between his fingers. I crouched down next to the bed and put my hand on his shoulder, waiting patiently until he rolled slightly over to look up at me. “Grandpa,” my voice was hushed as to not beckon the rest of the family back into the room, “Why have you stuck around for all these years without Grandma, when you miss her so much?” His eyes wrinkled closed and he tapped his chin with a pondering smile. “Your grandmother has never really been gone, you know,” he said, and I leaned closer to make out the words, “She just didn’t need to be on earth right now is all. She been telling me all these years that my time isn’t done yet. I don’t know what she means, but she’s my sweetheart and I trust her with my life.” I felt goosebumps wash over me. It’s true that people wisen with age, and somehow even the simplest things begin to mean more when they’re said by someone who has lived one hundred years. I tried to push back tears, but I couldn’t help but let a few trickle down my face. I squeezed Grandpa’s hand again, his face now out of focus in my watery eyes. “Maybe the reason you needed to stay,” I said solemnly, “Was to teach all of us what true love really means.” Grandpa’s eyes had closed, and a deep snore began to build up in his throat. He was asleep, but even still, his thin lips were curled into a peaceful smile that told me everything I needed to know. Grandpa passed away that evening. After 23 years, he was finally reunited with his dear Susanna. I can’t even imagine what the reunion must have been like. Or maybe, it was just like any other day for them. A couple who had never truly been apart, despite the physical separation. I think about them often, and what Grandpa said about trusting her with his life, even years after she had died. I told myself I’ll never settle for a love less than that, and I never have. We needed Grandpa here those last 23 years to teach us all that true unconditional love does not know mortal bounds, and that we all deserve to feel that ethereal sort of love that transcends the boundaries of time.

Maureen Hopkins had outlived most of her family. Her parents, her siblings, aunts, uncles, first cousins, and many of her second cousins. Sadly, even two of her three children.

Today was Maureen’s 100th birthday. Her only living daughter, Elizabeth, was accompanied by her two children and their children. Maureen’s other grandchildren made the drive as well, with their children and their children’s children.

Yes, Maureen had outlived many, but in her long life, she had also gained many. From three children came eight grandchildren. From eight grandchildren came fourteen great grandchildren. Maureen would also meet her first great great grandchild, Nora.

The family knew this would be the only chance to have five generations of Hopkins women in one room. Elizabeth knew her mother likely wouldn’t have another day. Her heart wrenched at the thought. Her father had passed nearly 20 years ago and, if she was being honest, she never believed her mother would make it this long without her soulmate.

Maureen had begun seeing and talking to Elizabeth’s dad in recent days. This was a sign Elizabeth recognized. Her dad, her sister, and her brother had all seen the faces of those long past when they were in their final days.

Elizabeth confided in the her children and word soon spread to the rest of the family, like a wildfire through the phone. The oldest great grandchild, Amy, had her daughter, Nora, just a month ago. The timing seemed to perfectly align for a final reunion for Maureen’s birthday.

Amy was exhausted, quite frankly, but she had always been close to Elizabeth, who was her direct grandmother, and she summoned all her strength to get her family to the birthday affair.

Nora was still in her sleepy newborn phase, at least during the day when it was less useful then those fitful nights, and she pleasantly slept in her portable bassinet next to Maureen, who had smiled widely when she saw her.

“She’s so beautiful!” Maureen exclaimed, with tears welling up in her eyes. Amy wiped away a tear, stemming from love and exhaustion and pride.

Everyone in the room felt an ache welling in their hearts at the beauty of the moment, and at the utter sorrow that would follow in the days to come.

Maureen’s eyes grew heavy and she mumbled her desire for a nap. She drifted off next to Nora. Maureen felt complete in that moment as she looked beyond her family and smiled widely at her husband and other two children beckoning her.

Elizabeth whispered, “I love you, mama.” And Maureen was ready to go home, her heart full and surrounded by family.

Happy 100th birthday, Maureen Hopkins.

Based off a true story

 Staring my grandfather in the eyes. looking at his face, well the half that wasn’t paralyzed. My grandfather mutters something under the short amount of breath that was left. Everyone looked over, wondering what he needed this time. My mother held his hand right, supporting him through wording it together. 
 “Ice cream sandwich” was what he said. Ice cream sandwich was my grandfathers 100th birthday present. No one was really shocked ice cream sandwiches had always been his favorite but it’s hard to eat something like that with only half a face. We cut up one of his favorite ice cream sandwiches for my grandma to feed to him as his breath shortened more and more. And by the time the ice cream was gone, he was gone too.

Is heaven real?

Mica Anderson had asked that question a million times throughout his life. When his parents died, he asked. When his dog died, he asked. When his wife died, he asked. He asked in between those times and all through out the hours of the night. He asked and asked and got no response from the supposed God who is supposed to live in heaven. Now more than ever Mica needs an answer to that question.

He turned 100 today. A huge milestone and accomplishment. An honor in many people’s eye. A curse in his own eyes. He lived through so many deaths and so many trials. He faced cancer and won. He came out weak but he made it and recovered perfectly. He faced a dire car accident that should’ve taken his life but he made it with only a few scratches. It was a miracle. He even survived against a pack of wolves out in his woods. He was chopping wood for his lovely wife and came across them. They were hungry and crazy and were foaming at the mouth. He had his gun and shot three and somehow managed to out run the other two. He still did not know how he was able to run as fast as he did that day. Right now, he didn’t care. Right now, all he wanted was peace. Then the question came again.

Is heaven real?

Mica groaned in his plush chair and threw the Bible on the ground. He had on three blankets with the heat cranked up and yet the cold swirls of snow outside somehow made him cold. He felt the cold deep into his old, brittle bones as he pulled his robe closer. He stared the terrifying book he cracked open for the first time sprawled against the floor. He stared at it in rage and confusion. He was reading Genesis and it made not a lick of sense to him. The birth of creation made little sense. It is hardly scientific and is composed of whimsical magic. It didn’t bring him peace and came out in Mumbo Jumbo. He grunted, disappointed in himself. A prized scientist who once worked at NASA was contemplating nonsense and has been contemplating nonsense for most his life.

He heard the door open with a resounding bang. Mica didn’t move to get up or yell. His granddaughter would find him eventually. He waited until her head popped around a corner. She had auburn hair and golden freckles. She may have been thirty with her own kids and husband, but she still looked like his five year old baby girl.

“Grandpa! What on earth are you doing in here? It is so hot, and are those blankets? Grandpa! Do you remember what your doctor said?” She always did this. Comes in his house like his little nurse. But she really was. Most of his small family lived too far to see. His granddaughter, Sarah, moved here specifically to take care of him. He wished she hadn’t.

She turned the temperature down and stole one of his blankets.

“Confound it woman! Let a man be comfortable how he wants to be comfortable. Leave me be!” His words alway fell on deaf ears.

“Absolutely not, grandpa! Why if grandma was here, she have a fit with you! The kitchen is a mess and the maid is apparently fired! Grandpa, what it the world!” She suddenly trips over the fallen Bible. She froze and stared at it in wonder.

Mica felt an uncomfortable blush Grace his cheeks. He grunted and let a cold, indifferent exterior become his defense. He did that too often, but he didn’t have much long anyways. He could feel it. The feeling stretched from his chest to his stomach and even took up residence in his head. He felt it press and pursue him and today was the day he wanted to finally give in. First, he needed the question to be answered.

“Is heaven real, Sarah? I just ask because I have not long now.” He coughs, the pressure building in his chest. Sarah rushed to his side with tears streaming down her face. She grabbed her hand and he squeezes it but was hard.

“Oh pa!” She wept. Tears coated he cheeks and dropped down her sweater. Mica could almost not understand why she acted like this.

“Help me, Sarah.” He cried silently. “Read me something from that blasted book that will prove to me heaven is real. I - I want it to be real. I want to believe I will go to heaven. Not enough time.” He chokes. The pressure set to kill.

She sat at his feet and read to him Romans 8. She read and didn’t stop. They wept together, neither of them really knowing why. Mica slipped away. He disappeared into the abyss and found freedom. Not the fake numbness that some people believe. No, Mica died believing in heaven, in God, in peace that passes all understanding. He died and went to heaven and saved his granddaughter by opening the Bible and throwing it on the floor.

Crack! The trailer door flew back. Ebony uncoiled from her roundhouse kick stance and gave her father a withering look. Curtis was still staring down at his mother’s key in his hand. The key didn’t fit his mother’s door. Had Momma changed the lock on me, he thought.

Things had been bad between them for the last six months. His mother, Mabel Augusta Carter Goldstein Rivera, was the meanest woman in south Florida. Mabel could argue the spots of a Dalmatian. Mabel could make a statue cry. Mabel could make a grown man piss his pants with a firm stare. The family whispered the only reason the old battleaxe lived to 99 was that heaven wouldn’t have her and hell feared she’d take over. Curtis shook his head.

Ebony toed the door wide open. Fearless like her grandma, Ebony went to poke her head into the doorway. Curtis’ hand flew out and stopped her. Ebony looked affronted.

“Momma it’s Curtis and Ebony,” Curtis called out.

He was answered with the smell of dog shit and rotting food. Mabel was mean and clean. Mabel deep cleaned every Sunday. Mabel used to put on white gloves and criticize Curtis’ first wife for dust under the sofa. Mabel said cleanliness is next to Godliness and messiness was an ass whopping.

Holding his youngest back, Curtis stepped into the dark double wide. Something crunched beneath his feet. Hairs prickled on his nape. He knew something was wrong and he knew he was not alone. A low growl came from the darkness.

Suddenly light. Ebony stood by the light switch with a shovel. Where did this girl get a shovel? He thought. From the corner a skinny gray pit bull puppy shivered in a dirty crate. Father and daughter slowly turned around Momma’s home. Everything was gone.

The commemorative plates, Momma’s handmade quilts, the Black Americana iron bank collection, and the constellation of family photos were gone. Even the framed pictures of Obama, Jesus, Tubman, and MLK were missing. Ebony stared at the picture hangers empty on the wall. Curtis put his hand where his bronze baby shoes used to be and wavered.

Ebony helped him to a tattered sofa were Momma’s French grey velvet loveseat had been. She fetched him a glass of water. It was Momma’s retro fiestaware tumbler. He drank deeply. Momma had gotten pissed at him over losing her cellphone again. Curtis made the mistake of questioning her memory. They had not talked in six months. That was Momma’s way.

Momma still called Ebony though. Five months ago when he tried the landline one of Momma’s new neighbors answered. Kiki assured him the she was friends with Mabel and keeping an eye on her. Kiki and Curtis talked every few weeks. Curtis grew to trust the kindly voice. Things were fine, until they weren’t. All calls stopped three days ago. Ebony flew down and together they drove to Momma’s.

“Whatever you do don’t look in that filthy fridge,” Ebony said.

She let the puppy out of its crate and fetched it some fresh water and beef baby food. This is when Curtis noticed the dingy toys on the floor. His body was swimming through molasses and he was having a hard time catching his breath. Ebony investigated the bedroom. Slurping the puppy ate food near his foot.

Ashen, Ebony returned from Momma’s bedroom. “Somehow Nanny Mae’s bedroom is filthier than the kitchen. I took all the mail and IDs of the bastards living here for the cops. Nothing of hers is in there except this.”

Lip quivering, Ebony handed her dad a photo. It was of Mabel at her 50th birthday party in a bell bottoms and a halter top and mouth open in a laugh. His bones ached knowing his fierce, proud, maddening mother was gone. They hugged each other.

“Who the hell are you!” A red-faced man shouted.

Ready to strike, Ebony whipped up the shovel. The guy dropped his burger and fries and backed up. Ebony edged closer.

Curtis stood, rage icy and sharp radiating from him.

“We are the kin of Mabel.”

The stranger’s eyes went wide in recognition.

“You took her from us. We are the people who will rain retribution on you and everyone else involved, burn your world to a cinder, and salt the earth so you all never rise again.”

Ebony snapped the man’s photo with her cellphone. Blinking, the man swallowed hard. Curtis gave his daughter a nod, pushed the man aside, and headed for his car. Ebony followed, turned around and grabbed the puppy, and walked to the car with the shovel over her shoulder.

There she sat in the living room, on her beige and green rocking chair. My lovely mother whose lived until 99 years old and counting. My lovely mother who gave birth to my eldest sister when she was 18 and raised her alone at her aunt’s house because her mom nor the father of her child wanted to except her and her baby. My mom who graduated high school at 19 and graduated college at 25 with her master’s degree in medical science. My mom who fell in love with my father, who was the owner of the lab that she worked at until she retired. Our mom who gave birth to 3 children, Julie; the eldest, Brent; the middle child, and me; the youngest, and raised them all with the same loving and equal attention. Our mom who made sure to care for us after dad died and made sure we got everything we needed even if it meant she had to sacrifice her meals. Our mom who sat everyone down on the one cold night we came to visit, because that’s what we do every year on the day dad died. Julie, her husband, and two children; Brent, his wife, and their twin sons; me, my husband, and our three children, we all sat in the living room all cramped up and cozy, and ready to listen to what she had to say. My mom, our mom, and our children’s grandmother who told us she was ill, who told us she only had one month left to live. Our Mrs. Janice Jones whose eyes sparkled as she laughed when everyone stared and covered their mouths in disbelief. My best friend who still found it in herself to comfort the sum of us who were tearing up and holding our hearts in pain. The upcoming month was her birthday, we were planning a big celebration for her 100th year on earth, but to hear it would be her last? We were all in denial. There had to be something we could do, something that could save her. But she explained that it was too late, she explained that even if there was a solution that she would refuse it, because she’s lived long enough. She’s seen everything she’s wanted to, her children and her children’s children living happily, she said she’s lived long enough and wanted to see our dad again. We couldn’t deny her that, surely she misses him as much as we do if not more. So there we were June 15th at 11:00pm, most of the family was cuddled inside of her hospital room. Even in her last moments, she looked at us all so dearly. Each and everyone of us spent the last hour talking and reminiscing with her, telling her how much we loved her. Then once the clock struck 12:00am and it was a new day, our mom and our dearest friend took her first and last breath on her 100th birthday. Our hearts were bloated with pain, our bodies on the verge of dropping to our knees, but we held it in, we held in our tears and our screams just for a few minutes. So that she would make it to dad in peace, without looking back in worry.

"I gotta be honest...I never thought you'd look like the cartoons." It was the first thing I could manage as I sat at my coffee table opposite Death. I couldn't help but stare into the dark hollows of his eye sockets.

His skeletal jaw curved into a smile, one that wasn't sinister or evil, but inviting...almost playful. "You'd be surprised at how many people say that to me upon seeing me."

I responded with a solemn nod and looked past him, out my kitchen, and into my living room. Watching my family as they smiled and laughed, peered into their conversations...about me. It felt as though I was watching them as an outsider, like someone observing a movie.

My final viewing.

I nudged the half-drunk mug of tea across my dinner table. "I got to be honest. I never thought I'd make it to one hundred."

"No one does," responded Death.

I managed a smile, the corners of my mouth aching in protest. "You know it's funny. In my late twenties, I remember telling my therapist that I didn't think I'd live past thirty. I had this weird mindset for years that I was going to die before then. My therapist at the time, her response was that maybe I just didn't see my life as clearly past that age, that it was more mystery than a fear."

I shook my head as a chuckle arose from my belly. "I guess my point is that I never once thought I'd make it this far. Certainly not to one hundred...not even close." I closed my eyes and shook my head. "Look at me repeating myself."

"And when did you want to pass away?" Questioned Death.

I managed a shrug, pain rippling from my shoulders down my lower back. "I'd always joked about eighty-five. Die on the year that I was born you know?"

Death laughed. He had a nice laugh.

"Now. I remember at forty...and this isn't good mind you. But I had the intention of killing myself at forty. Throughout my thirties, I wasn't the happiest with where my life was going and I'd figured if things didn't turn around by forty...I'd just finish things."

"And are you glad that you didn't?" Death asked.

I continued to watch my family from where I was sitting. Taking as much as I could in this final moment. My oldest daughter as she held my first grandson in her arms, showing him pictures around my apartment of herself when she was a child. My youngest son as he and his wife organized a series of gifts for me on the coffee table. I glossed over the balloons that said "100", my gaze landing back on Death.

"Absolutely. You know. Maybe my life didn't turn out the way I wanted it to, not entirely..."

"No one's life ever does," replied Death.

I managed a nod. "Will I be able to watch them?"

"As much of their lives as you choose," Death said through a warm smile. "Are you ready?"

I nodded.

"Then take my hand."

And I did.