Of Wings & Whispered Prayers: A Grandmother’s Farewell

Every year, Quiet Oaks Hospice hosts a butterfly release at Munsinger Gardens. Each person sponsors a butterfly to represent a recently departed loved one. They hand you a small, triangular envelope with a sleeping monarch gently slumbering inside, and the proceeds help support others as they pass through the final chapter of life, with the grace and dignity we all deserve.

I’m in the chapter of my life where the generation before me quietly slips into their rest. Every year, there’s been someone to honor: a beloved aunt, a cherished uncle, an old friend, even a family dog. Eventually, it was my father, and now my mother.

There’s always someone to memorialize. And in becoming a grizzled veteran of loss, I’ve learned to see the beauty in being able to gradually let go.

Losing your mother is an archetypal loss. One that shifts your axis and rewrites the story of your life. I was my mother’s only child. My daughter, Eva, was her only grandchild. From the very first weeks of Eva’s life, my mother was there. Helping where she could, always bringing up random bags of art supplies. Eager to help Eva learn create as soon as she could move her hands.

In the years before dementia slowly stole her sense of self, my mother had magic in her moments with Eva. There would always be this moment in her visit, where it was just the two of them. Finger painting, drawing, or making puppets. Whatever little project lit their imagination that week.

There would always come this moment, gentle and sacred, when I would step out for a snack or head to the bathroom, and Eva would sit quietly, patiently, before her grandmother. Like a little cub poised at the feet of the great matriarch. Listening from the other room, I’d hear my mom talking to Eva about the adventurous life she had ahead. Each conversation was sprinkled with a bit of Oh, the Places You’ll Go.

She’d always end their little ritual the same way. Resting her hand on Eva’s chest, whispering a soft prayer, then offering some parting advice. Simple, strange, or sweet.

“Always wash behind your ears.”

“Never go into the woods with less than a knife.”

“Careful boys are always trouble.”

If I came back too soon, I’d be gently shushed away. It was their private moment. A bond I didn’t dare break for Goldfish crackers and juice.

On what would be my mother’s last night on this Earth, I took Eva to visit her. I asked her if there was anything she wanted to say to Grandma one last time. I could tell there was, but she felt awkward. So, I offered to step out into the hall. Standing there, I watched Eva talking to her grandmother for the last time. Leaning over her with her hand on her chest, as if offering up one last prayer for the old matriarch.

At the last Quiet Oaks event, I sponsored a butterfly in my mother’s honor. When it came time to release it, I opened the envelope where Eva could see.

Usually, they just flutter away, off into the gardens, free at last, stopping to feed on a flower long enough for you to snap a picture. This one burst forth, freed from the envelope at long last, shuffling off the mortal coil of vellum paper, and alighted on Eva’s shirt. And instead of flying away, it landed on Eva’s shirt.

It stayed there for many long moments, wings opening and closing slowly with the rhythm of a slow heartbeat, like a prayer. As if my mother were with her again, resting a hand over her heart, blessing her only granddaughter one last time. Wishing her well on the great adventure ahead… before setting off on her own journey into whatever waits beyond.

I’ve learned that loss is a natural part of life. Something you can’t outrun, hide from or delay. Yet if you’re bold enough to face it with grace and compassion, you come to see the beauty in life’s little sacred moments. And in the quiet magic of a grandmother saying goodbye to her cherished granddaughter… one last time.