6 months. 182 days. 262,800 minutes. No matter which way you put it, that accumulation of time amounts to your smile disappearing from this Earth.
For the last 6 months, I’ve anticipated this milestone (if that’s what we call it). I’d whisper to myself, “If only I can make it 6 months without her, maybe the year will get better.” Well, Grandma, the year most definitely has not gotten better. I’ve lost several friends to tragedies in the last 6 months but no experience has stung quite like your passing.
*written in present tense on June 14, 2024
Recently, reminders of you have popped up more frequently and vividly. Perhaps, it’s the arrival of Father’s Day that has me extra tuned in but some of the most simple movements scream Mary Ann, like that pinky swipe to snag extra crumbs on the table. A few nights ago, I rested my head on my childhood bed soaking the pillow case in salty tears as I flashback to many firsts with you. You were the first person to hold me in that green rocking chair when my dad died. The first person to share a smile and exclaim their pride, even for the silliest accomplishments, like showing Grandpa my first training bra. You were the first person to play dominoes or cards with me. I would note that you were also the first person to call me too dumb for something (definitely not the last). However, I was “too dumb to learn cribbage”, which I never took offense to because you were absolutely right. Likely, you are saying “No, no, no” while wringing your hands in Heaven disagreeing with that statement. You’d never call me, Johnny’s Daughter, dumb. In fact, Grandma, I believe the reason I’ve struggled so much with your loss (if not for obvious reasons) is because I still feel you here with me. I mean, how many people are comfortable enough to lay down a blanket and pop a squat with a computer on their grandmother’s grave? Definitely a first for me. I feel like I’m in your living room asking what you burnt this time. I can merely hear you say “it’s okay honey, just sit right there.” These feverish memories unfortunately remind me that it’s not real and the hollowness in my heart digs deeper. I’m not sitting in your living room. I’m not shuffling the deck and you are no longer one call away. While a couple nights ago, I could only ponder the firsts, today as I sit at your place of remembrance I can only discover the lasts.
As I step out of my White Jeep, I sneak by my classmate’s headstone who left us in August of 2008, a month after Grandpa’s departure to the heavenly skies. Crazy. Crazy how time goes by and you don’t realize what you’ve been through until look back and roll the tape. Grow through what you go through, right? While I shuffle past Shauna telling her good morning, I rest a blanket beside you and Grandpa. Just like he used to rattle me awake, I should have brought a container of Planters peanuts to shake and wake his sleepy butt up. Next, I settle in by nestling my coffee onto a blotch of grass and place my artificial flowers into the soft ground. As I squirm back onto your sunken grave, my face begins to replicate Niagara Falls. I pray nobody stops by the cemetery. In my mind, I think, “I’m a strong independent woman who was spoiled rotten by her 91-year-old grandmother. I’m so lucky for what I had. It’s not appropriate for people to see me cry.” Then, an older gentlemen drives past to wipe down his wife’s grave. He takes a moment to presumably shed a few memories then drives away. Not long after, my classmate, Lexy, drops by to place flowers on family headstones. Thankfully, I have big framed sunglasses to hide my running mascara. We discuss our upcoming class reunion and share a few stories about you. She returns to her car to finish a day of work and I return to the keyboard. Finally, I have a moment of peace to fill you in on the latest gossip while suppressing a serious gut ache that Grandpa would blame on my former candy-loving GG (garbage gut). Today, I want to visit you and thank you for so many “firsts”. However, my brain can only remember the lasts. I recall your last Christmas which together we celebrated before the 25th. As you washed your face and slipped off your shoes at the Winner Regional Nursing Home, you looked at me and said “Oh Bec, this has been the best Christmas” to which I bluntly responded, “It’s not even Christmas yet.” That moment, lightly under appreciated by myself at the time, revealed how thankful you were to be surrounded by family, even if we do yell at each other most the time. You were so appreciative of the little things in life. A Wild Card in a game of Phase 10. A small bag of cheese smoked by Uncle Tony. A short visit from your closest relative or even the most distant stranger. You were pure at your core, crying over the same Western you’d seen 10,000 times. Granted, we can’t solely blame Grandpa for the wild side we all carry. You walked beside me every day of my life for 27 years. Glancing up at Shauna’s picture on her headstone, I’m reminded that you were there when I found out about her accident. We were sitting at Aunt Cindy’s (before the new pool days) when you embraced me in a hug and sobbed for the Pravecek family. Your heart was so big; it was felt by hundreds. To the babies in Iraq from the kittens on your porch, not one soul was forgotten or mistreated by you.
As I fold my computer, wrap up my blanket, and shake my sleepy leg awake, I’m thankful that leaving this space does not mean I’m leaving you. You still walk with me every day, with your handwriting on my necklace or the wind clanging your chimes. You somehow still remind me to stay resilient, just like you, no matter how many heartbreaks and heartaches life throws at us. Nobody talks about the moods felt weeks, months, and years after a person’s death. It’s an assumption to believe that painful memories fade and only happy times are remembered. However, for anyone who has experienced a substantial loss in their life, we know that each day is a fight and with each day alive, we have a victory.
Grandma, you don’t escape my mind for a second. Some days are filled with laughs while others are the exact opposite. Grief is nothing to be embarrassed about as I’m continuing to learn. I'm thankful for the man who has patience to rock the chair and cradle me like a baby when I miss you most. Grief is the price of love and to love as wholly as I loved you is something I’ll be forever grateful for.
Miss you. Love you. See you in the next memory.
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