When Art Imitates Life

[image error] When I was nine, my paternal grandmother died of cancer. She and I were close, so I dreaded the open-casket funeral. As it turned out, the experience was quite different from what I expected. I studied her made-up face with more curiosity than sorrow.

That’s not Grandma in the coffin, I thought. It’s just a shell.

The air was heavy with whispers, sobs, and the scent of flowers, but I sensed my grandmother hovering at the back of the room, watching us all. When my grandfather broke down in f...