I was just barely 20 when my grandmother died. She had lived to a ripe age of 84, and before she died she spent some time in an assisted living home. I had visited her many times, and in her dementia she was quite a story teller.
The day that she passed, I was there. It was a mildly warm afternoon in April, and she had been gallantly telling me a story about her young crusades with her two older brothers. I was so taken in surprise when she suddenly said she was tired and needed to lie down. She looked at me with weary eyes, told me she loved me and then closed her eyes, and never opened them again.