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A comfort?

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.

Beverly Hutcheson

Tijeras, New  Mexico

April 1974

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