When my grandmother closed her eyes at ninety eight, she smiled like she was recognizing an old melody. She said she could hear her mother calling from the kitchen, the same soft voice that once braided her hair before school. I held her hand as her breathing slowed, and in that quiet room I understood she was not disappearing but returning. God is the certainty that flesh is only a coat; I bought it because her final breath felt less like an ending and more like stepping through a familiar doorway.