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I was thirteen when my grandmother, Minnie McClendon, died in 1952. I loved her dearly and was grief-stricken by her sudden death. My parents, Donald and Jessie McClendon, and I traveled to Moran, Texas, for the funeral.
While there I sometimes thought I heard my grandmother’s voice calling me from the kitchen in her familiar way, “Honey, come on out in the kitchen with me.” Each time I almost answered before remembering she was dead, The I would break into sobs.
Through some confusion, I didn’t get to sit with my parents next to Grandmother’s casket at the funeral, and I resented this.
The following day we returned home to Eastland, Texas. I was very tired. That night in bed I was about to drop off to sleep, but when I rolled over on my side facing the window I bolted wide awake.
There stood Grandmother beside my bed in her light-blue funeral gown, her long hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. I was so startled I hid my face. When I look again she was gone.
Now, years later, I often wonder if Grandmother came to comfort me because of my grief and disappointment at not getting to sit next to her casket.
Tijeras, New Mexico