cemetery of grief
I watched some videos of you today. I don’t think you knew at the time that I was taking them and for that I am delighted because I always have preferred the unfiltered version of you.
I miss your laugh.
I wore a couple of your rings yesterday. I’ve been carrying them in my purse until I find a spot I feel is dignified enough to keep them. I remember what they looked like on your fingers, and I only hope that they look half as good on mine as they did on yours.
If I had another bit of truth to tell you Gram, I have been avoiding writing this piece.
Whether it was me knowing full well the feelings that were destined to overwhelm me, or perhaps it’s me having a hard time coming to terms with the physical finality of you. Something for 36 years I had. It is a lot to take in; a thing to be avoided.
I find myself going back to one of the countless tableside conversations we had under the ceiling fan in the dining room. You had been taking about death and spirituality and I asked you to do me one favor. To just promise to let me know what it’s like when you get to wherever we go next, if anywhere at all. It was during the midst of all of those conversations we had last summer I bring myself back to, the sands of our hourglass have a fierce hook in me that way. I’m left clinging to those words, those laughs we shared, the tears we cried together, and the secrets you told me. The summer I lost my mind. We didn’t have that summer together on accident. I needed it… and I think you did, too.
Also, I took care of that thing you wanted me to take care of. It was a long time coming.
Your house is in the process of being sold, if it’s not already. Things move much too fast these days. I haven’t been keeping up too much with that, but Julie, Mom & Gary have. I know you’re proud of them. You always have been. Stubborn as hell all of them… but they sure know how to get things done.
I have a whole kitchen setup in my apartment, thanks to you. That pan that you always said you hated, I understand why now. I didn’t think it was that bad at the time, but now that it has to be hand washed every day… I get it. What a kitchen nightmare. Although, I would be lying if I said I wanted to replace it. Maybe someday, but that day is far in the unforeseeable future as the thought stands today.
Every time I reach for a plate out of the cabinet it reminds me of the times I cooked for you and served it on the same plates I hold in my hands these days. You liked my cooking better than your own & while I wouldn’t admit it to you in your lifetime, I would have to agree with you. BUT! Your baking was always a gold standard to be met. I can’t bake like you could. It was a good trade off. Except maybe that one set of brownies you made that were totally gross but you kept eating them anyway, talking about how terrible they tasted. “I should not be eating this. They’re not even that good’ I can hear your disgusted voice and can see you standing over the sink like I just witnessed it yesterday. When I moved I found the cookbook you compiled for me the Christmas I turned 15 or 16. I could only bring myself to look at a few of the recipes but, I’m confident I’ll get there someday.
Also, I took your phone charger and the pillow I convinced you to buy. I have never been one to link emotionally to objects but sometimes grief makes you do weird things. Like keep a key to a house you’ll never step foot in again. It’s a gold key, just like my apartment keys. For now, that’s where it belongs. With everything that tangibly represents a home here.
I’ve also turned into someone who has a wind chime attached to the ceiling in my living room. I always thought it was a little weird of you to do. But here I am. As you know I’m big on intentionality and the thought of doing anything else with it escapes me. The only time I hear it make noise is when one of us knocks our head on it in passing and that’s fun… something I think you’d enjoy as well – so in the living room it stays until the next person bashes their skull on it.
That’s about all I have to say for now.
I miss you, Gram.
Love you.