Grandmother

"She's gone," my mom told me through tears over invisible lines stretching from her to me through space as she and my father were driving to visit my grandmother in the hospital. How cruel it seemed to me, the timing. "Mom, I'm so sorry," was all I could muster through my own tears.

Hanging up the phone, I was transported immediately in my mind to a time one month prior, sitting in my living room with my mother and my grandmother and my crazy rambunctious 3-year-old daughter -- 4 generations of women, all bound by blood, in the same room -- and I was overcome by a profound desire to know my grandmother. I looked at her in all her unassuming elegance and quiet, and I swore I could see words beneath her aging skin. Stories. And I knew she would tell me these stories if I asked. And I knew she'd have some juicy ones. And I knew I would never regret asking.

I did not ask. Conversation remained small and light. I gave into my fears and lost yet another moment once filled to the brim with potential for human, heart-felt connection. Watch it, feel it, there it goes...

The next night at a dinner to celebrate my father's birthday, twice during the course of conversation I felt suddenly compelled to tell my grandmother something and actually acted on the impulse. One: during a conversation about parenting, and how it's impossible to ever feel like an "expert in the field" because the game is constantly changing, I said to my grandmother something along the lines of, "I bow down to you, oh Mother of Six. Honestly, Grama, you are a stronger woman than I." And Two: as we were saying our goodbyes I was taken aback by how lovely she looked. I remembered thinking the same thing the day before in my living room, and at other occasions in the past, and I remembered that I ignored the impulse to tell her. This time I told her. And I told her that I have always noticed how lovely and put-together she is. I was genuine, as was her smile in response. I don't know that these were particularly special moments for my grandmother, but they mean something to me. They were real, loving moments, where I ignored my insecurities and my nervousness and acted on loving impulse. And I am thankful to my grandmother for bringing that out in me in those moments.

I need to act on loving impulse more often.

I have a friend who can't get over the slowness with which I accomplish certain mundane tasks, such as buttering toast. I like buttering toast. It is not a task lacking in pleasure, its sole purpose being the lead-up to the act of consumption. I feel the knife in my hand; I like the weight of it. I am careful when I scoop the butter; if crumbs are deposited, they are quickly removed. And I firmly believe that buttered toast should be buttered. As in completely. I recently found out (or rediscovered?) that I picked up this habit from my mother, who picked it up from my grandmother. Now, I not only enjoy buttering toast, not only can I say I do it well, but it is now, also, quite special to me. Buttering toast now brings to mind for me my mother, and my grandmother, and this beautifully complex thing we call family.

My grandmother is my family. I love her and I will miss her now that she's gone, but I am sad to say that I have never felt very close to her. Seven to eight hours driving time has separated us for nearly my entire life. Visits once or twice a year (or less) were not enough, at least for me, to form a close bond.

And so life goes on. And before you know it, you find yourself as an adult, with children of your own, sitting with your grandmother in your living room, faced with the realization that you don't even know her.

And you want to know her. And you're practically bursting at the seams with questions that you don't ask, telling yourself that you'll visit, soon, and you'll drink tea together, and talk for hours and laugh and maybe cry and in the end you will know her. At least a little bit.

A month later, you get a phone call and realize you missed your chance. That window has closed, never to open again.

At least you still have buttered toast.

Two days ago, I had a migraine. It came on swiftly and was completely debilitating for a good hour. The pain and nausea eventually passed, but I felt out of it, numb, for the rest of the day. Stephen offered, "maybe you're just stressed," which I rebuffed. I didn't feel stressed, I told him.

I realize now that I am. My body has been in northern California, while my mind has been south, where the former home of my grandmother's spirit lies. I have been stressed because since that phone call from my mother, I have been contemplating death nearly nonstop, and death is heavy and mysterious and...inevitable. It does not surprise me that my brain felt the need to short circuit for a bit.

If given the opportunity to view the body, I will accept. I read somewhere that doing so can help you come to terms with the death, to see that the body is only a shell, or a vessel. Her spirit no longer resides there.

I will look at her body in its quiet coldness, a sleep that looks nothing like sleep, and I will know she is no longer subject to the sufferings of flesh. I will imagine her spirit, shiny and beautiful and perfect, merging with the spirits of those who went before. And I will smile. And I will cry. And I will listen, really listen, to the stories her loved ones tell. At this point, what more can I do?

Grama, in your passing, you have given me a gift. You have wakened me to the realization that death is not only impossible to avoid, but the exact moment it will touch your life is impossible to know. Do not wait until tomorrow to do what your soul compels you to do. This moment is all we have.

I love you, Grama. May you and Pop now rest in peace, together once again.