Myrt is gone.

Six years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30 in the morning by my mother.

"Wake up baby. Myrt is gone."

To this day, the words seem foreign and wrong. They sound impossible and incorrect. Akin to, "Jesus does not love you," or "you are a white American."

No.

Myrt is my grandmother. She IS my grandmother. And she is gone.

I know, I know. Better place. Up with God. Listening to angels sing. No more pain. Happy. Content. Peaceful.

But gone.

No more silent-throw-your-head-back-and-laugh-and-when-everyone-is-finished-your-head-is-still-thrown-back-coming-down-off-your-silent-high.

No more "what-did-you-say-Shannon"-knowing-that-Shannon-really-shouldn't-have-said-whatever-it-is-that-she-said.

No more talking-about-transvestites-on-Jerry-Springer-even-though-she-could-barely-pronounce-the-words-after-the-third-and-last-stroke-left-her-as-an-invalid-for-the-last-seven-years-of-her-life.

No more reminding-mama-that-Purdue-roasters-were-on-sale-at-Jewel's.

No more Cleo-wig.

No more everything-that-her-grandbabies-do-is-funny-and-not-to-be-punished-with-whoopins.

And I didn't know how much it could hurt. I didn't know that when I ignored her lying in that bed because I was scared to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I pouted about having to help mama change her diapers because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I didn't want to go over to her house before church because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I always believed that she would get up and walk again and that all I had to do was wait it out and I'd never have to see my grandma like that.

She'd been there since my birth...

I thought she'd be there until the end.

And I knew that was an impossibility, but I didn't want to see my grandma like that; mortal.

She was not mortal to me. She was a Goddess with pinchable cheeks, and endearing toothless grin, and love that knew no bounds.

But gone.

And six years later, I still cry and miss her and am scared to mention her to anyone because I think that I will not make it through the conversation. Six years later I'm still missing the unflinching support and love that she offered so willingly. Six years later I just want to see her face and hear her silent laugh. Six years later, I listen to "Grandma's Hands" and I still see her hands. Six years later, I want Myrt.

And I know that, if she were here, she'd want me. She'd call me in her room and tell me something that I could barely understand, but understood better than anybody else. She would've come to my high school and college graduation in her signature wig and I would've taken pictures with her and she would've been so proud of me. I know it.

But Myrt is gone. She's been gone for six years, and I still don't feel any better.