I had never seen my uncle cry. We were standing around the little hole in the cemetery. My aunt and uncle had come from Oregon for the "funeral," and some other family had come too. As we stood there, the man in black asked us, "Who would like to pour her in?" Nobody said a word. My aunt let out a wail, and my uncle stepped forward. The man gave the bag of ashes to him and whispered something in his ear. My uncle nodded, knelt on the ground and began to pour my grandma's ashes in the hole. I don't think it actually hit any of us until that moment that she was gone. We knew it was coming, too, the infections, the cancer, the memory loss, the falls. We all knew it would come, and here it was. I completely lost it. I began shaking, and I felt angry with life. Angry that I had life. My grandma lived the last four months of her life in pain. She was in and out of the hospital and nursing homes (which she didn't want to be in in the first place). She was always being poked with needles. She was in constant embarrassment because she couldn't get up to go to the bathroom. She was actually wishing she would die.

I was so angry and sad with all of what had happened, but so happy at the same time. Grandma got her last wish.