My grandmother is 4 foot 9 inches. She dresses like she’s from another country, another world. Her accent is endearing and her voice warbles like a bird. Her features are delicate but don’t let that fool you, she’ll out-eat you any day. Her Argentine-ness oozes; she loves meat and hates vegetables, anyone that’s not from Europe or Argentina is second class, she loves the tango first and the waltz second, and everyone should learn French. Chicken and fish don’t really count as meat–only beef.  Which only Argentines can cook properly.  My eight years as vegetarian were utter torture to her, and though she’s never said anything out loud, there’s a glint in her eye when she sees me eat my steak with vigor.

My grandmother is also deeply religious. She goes to Mass everyday and twice on Sundays, she gives money to anyone who asks (don’t get any ideas!), and seriously believes the Devil can make people do bad things.

My grandmother has lived in fear of the Apocalypse since she was born, which seems silly.  What makes her think it would happen during her lifetime? And anyway, were it to happen during her life I’m pretty sure God himself would come down and scoop her up.  She’s a dead ringer for a saint, all she has to do now is martyr herself.  I’ll bet she’s waiting for the chance.

Apparently, a few nights ago, she had a dream that St. Joseph came to her and told her of an earthquake that would happen on Friday, March 12th, at 3pm. See?  Saint.

When I went to check her blood pressure that morning, she reminded me to make sure we were all out of the house at 3.  In case something should happen.

After picking up and dropping kids off, after errands and nap times, I finally checked my voice mail. My grandmother, again reminding me to be out of the house with the kids at 3.

A frantic call from my mother–she couldn’t get a hold of Grandma. The time? 2:45.

“Mom, she’s probably outside.”

“What time is it?  Almost 3?  Will you check on her?”

So I went, I was not about to leave my almost 90 year old grandmother to face the Apocalypse by herself, besides, she was probably the best person to be near during an event like that.

I drove as quickly as I felt comfortable in the down pour.  Parked and kept the car running.  I was just going to check on her, then go home and fix something for me and the kids to eat.

My grandmother sat outside on the picnic bench, under the canopy. In her slippers, her overcoat, and her little water proof thingy that protects her perm. She sat, waiting for something to happen.  Nothing was happening, other than her getting wet, the wind was blowing the rain towards her.

A sigh of relief that she was actually outside and not, fallen on the ground with a heart attack became a surge of despair that she was outside in the cold.

“What time is it?” she asked me.

“3″ I responded.  I wanted so badly to be snarky, ‘where’s the Apocalypse now Grandma?’  But I bit my tongue. In the rain.

“Oh Tank Got notink happened! We should pray to be tankful.” Obviously she was fine, but her confession that she was feeling a little weak worried me even more. This little check in on her was turning into a stay. I would not leave her alone until I felt comfortable doing so.  Nightmares of pneumonia floated in my tired and hungry head.

I ran back up the steps, turned off the car, grabbed the kids and rushed back down. All my hurry didn’t stop any of us from getting wet.

Inside the kids and I raided her fridge and in between bites we visited. It was warm inside, the kids happily played.  I had to remind myself to not check my iTouch every few minutes. Or my phone. I had to remember that time is running out for my dear old grandma, and when she’s gone, it’s afternoons like this I’ll remember and miss.

Photo by Flickr user swirlingthoughts