I stood over my Grandmother’s casket with shock and horror. It looked nothing like the woman I knew, revered, and loved deeply for almost thirty years. Her mouth stretched tight and cheeks pinned back to her ears. Flattening the wrinkles I’d come to memorize like a road map. Her hair style, similar to what she wore daily, was not positioned in the correct place. Her sweeping comb over bangs she would bobby pin in place and spritz with Paul Mitchell hair spray were an inch or two further back than usual. And her naturally flush, pink cheeks were a faux Ivory, like the rest of her face from the funeral home’s makeup.
Placing my hand on top of hers for a moment before I knelt beside her, I closed my eyes. I summoned the vivid image of her extending her warm hand to me a thousand times before, wrapping her fingers firmly around my palm. To hold in large shopping centers, through our town’s waterfront, or walking through the park and empty baseball diamond on our street. I remembered the feeling of her smooth skin and the veins that had slowly risen, becoming more distinct throughout time. And how they would shift slightly under my thumb if I rubbed the backside of her hand down to her pronounced knuckles.
All I could smell was the overwhelming bouquets of sympathy arrangements beautifully decorated around her. But I yearned for the scent of her. She always had a distinct fragrance that was comforting to me. I could never fully describe it; a unique blend of Irish spring soap and original Listerine to compliment the leather of her large tan handbag. The same one she’d carried throughout my entire life. And through all of these flashing memories that evoked every sense, I heard him sing.
“I am, I said!”
I surprised myself with a small gasp and soft laugh as I was on her casket’s kneeler. Of all the times for Neil Diamond’s songs to make a mental appearance, it felt appropriate. And welcomed.
She drank coffee every day from a severely faded mug that she had bought from a concert of his years before, that donned the words “Diamond Girl”. Every ride in her Lincoln Town Car, the same handful of cassette tapes played in her original 1980’s car stereo. All Neil Diamond. When she would come to my regional cheerleading competitions or to local football games to watch me on the sidelines, any time “Sweet Caroline” played over the PA system I would look over my shoulder from formation to find her in the bleachers or stadium seating, smiling. Happy tears warmed my eyes. And memories of her humming along filled my heart.
On an all white cat gift tag, a duplicate of the hundreds she tied with a ribbon to all of our Christmas gifts for years, I wrote my final goodbye and placed it into her clasped hands before the casket closed.
Later that day, I went home and collapsed in a pile of grief on my bathroom floor. Still wearing my black Mary-Jane heels and opaque tights from the funeral, I pulled my legs to my chest and cried quietly into my knees. I couldn’t picture a day without her. I reflected on our last weeks and months together. The doctor’s appointments, helping her with mobility and daily self care tasks. The card games we would play to fill her down time, and maintain her sharp mind by keeping score. But more than anything, I thought back on the conversations we had. Devouring each remembered word. Hoping for a sign on what to do now that she was gone.
“What do you think you’ll do for a long term career?” She asked me over her square glasses, as she pulled a three of hearts from her hand and discarded it into the Rummy pile.
“I mean…I, I don’t know.” It was honest. I had become so accustomed to living at home with her again and focusing my time and attention on caring for her that the prospect of long term anything seemed unattainable when my attention span was limited to meals and medication times.
“Well, that’s ok for now. But you should really think of options.” She picked up a card from the top of the deck and tsked at it. “Lousy…” she whispered to herself, discarding it immediately with a sigh.
“I love animals,” I shrugged my shoulders, “but I doubt I could make any sort of career around that without a degree.” I slid a card across the table into the pile.
“Sure you can,” she rearranged the cards in her hand, “start your own little business. Dog walking, pet sitting, or applying to a pet shop, maybe a shelter needs extra help and there’s…”
“Wait, what was the first one you said?” I needed to hear it again. For it to be spoken into reality so I could see it come together in my mind.
“Oh jeez…what was it…dog walking?” She said, questioningly, before taking a sip of tea from her prized mug.
“Yeah…dog walking.”
“Yeap. Just a few good clients to get you started, and go from there. Maybe make some flyers to post or some business cards to hand out.” She straightened her posture and laid down her entire hand in sets of three before she congratulated herself quietly. “Say, alright!”
But I was too distracted envisioning a new life for myself to focus on the game.
“Yeah…business cards.” I sat idle, daydreaming, until she asked what my score was.
With a renewed sense of urgent determination, I wiped the tears from under my chin and cheeks and picked myself up from the floor. I kicked my heels off and quickly turned the knob to the shower. Dog walking. A million questions came to mind as I stood under the water that beat down between my shoulders. But instant answers always followed, as if they were so obvious.
How would I start?
Create a business page and send invitations on social media.
What would I need to start?
Essentials. Treats, leashes, toys, travel size pet first aid kit and collapsing bowls.
What would I call my business?
Just then, I froze mid shampoo lather as my arms fell to my sides. I smiled from ear to ear, and laid my head back into the stream of water. I said the words aloud, speaking them into reality.
Diamond Dogs.
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