A Little More Time

I imagined her frail, wrinkled body lying in a sterile hospital room. My heart beat erratically when my dad delivered the news that my grandma had a mild stroke just yesterday. A slew of questions filled my mind. How could this happen? Will she pull through? Is she going to have another one? "I don't know," was all the information my dad could offer. I attempted to steer my way to the Dominican Joe coffee shop, fumbling through the motions and turns of the road. I sat in the parking lot and dialed my aunt's number, knowing that she was the one staying by her bedside. The weak and tired voice of my grandmother answers. She did not show any worry or wavering while she assured me that everything will be fine. "The doctors said if things look good, they'll let me go home tomorrow," she said. My grandmother has always been strong, fighting through the death of my grandfather, hyperthyroidism, and cataracts. She's a trooper. I hung up reluctantly and tried to compose myself in the car before I entered the coffee shop full of people. I failed. Tears streamed down my face like small rivers as I begged for God not to take her away anytime soon. At least let me see her face when I'm there in California 3 weeks from now. "Buy her some time," I pleaded, "Just a little more time..."