Conan.

The Barbarian? No. My grandmother.

Nan, aka Conan, is one tough English broad. The woman built her own house. And dug out a basement underneath it. She gave birth to 6 children. And has lived to see two of them die - along with her husband. She kept up with 6 acres... in a wheelchair. She could shut up any crying kid with crunched up saltines from the bottom of her purse. She learned to write with her left hand after she had a stroke which paralyzed the dominant side of her body. She didn't take anything from anybody. I've only seen her cry a handful of times.

Now, apparently, she is dying. She is on hospice. We have been waiting for her to die since 2006. I think this is it. I think that because Ian is dead. I think that because I need to believe God isn't cruel enough to leave her here any longer. I think that because my heart isn't strong enough for the wishy-washy ways of this universe anymore.

I want her to die gracefully. I am tired of messy death. I want that strength in death. That strength that doesn't fight, because it already has, but goes boldly, and certainly. I want that for her. I want bagpipes and glory. Because that's how I remember her.