When I was growing up, I did the same thing every time I went to my paternal grandparents’ house. First, I’d remove my shoes in “the kids’ room” that my sisters, cousins, and I all grew up sleeping in whenever we were visiting. Next, I’d go to my grandmother and grandfather’s bedroom to say hello. If they weren’t there, I’d check the dining room, kitchen, and family room (in that order.) We’d hug, and they’d make a big deal about the fact that one of their grandchildren had finally arrived. Sometimes they’d ask me to get the mail or grab something from the refrigerator downstairs. Other times, my grandmother would have me taste a bit of whatever confection she was working on, or my grandfather would chat with me in the garage. This was the routine for 22 years of my life and then, suddenly, it just wasn’t.
My grandfather passing away two years ago altered this reflex. He wasn’t in the basement working on a dollhouse. I couldn’t find him watching Judge Joe Brown in the den. His absence was permanent. So imagine my surprise when I walked into my childhood safe haven last fall, spoke to my grandmother, and then almost asked my cousin, “Where’s Granddad?” My tongue wrestled in my mouth as I swallowed the words. I’m not sure what came over me, but the impulse to find him was there.
***
I think a lot of us consider hauntings terrible things. But there’s so much beauty in those shining moments when you can feel someone’s soul resting on yours. There’s an intimacy that’s relived when I hear Prince or the Isley Brothers and sense my aunt. I can’t help but look at the bracelet that belonged to my maternal grandfather and think of him. The absence is palpable, stinging, but the memory can act as a salve too.
***
A few months ago, my father’s mother passed away. Every few hours I could hear my voice going, “My grandmother is dead” in my head, always slightly removed and monotonous. I knew that it was just me processing things, because our relationship was far from distant. Referring to her as “my grandmother” felt awkward, because that’s not who she was first and foremost to me. She was Gram. My grandparents were the ones who my sisters and I begged our parents to spend the summers with. They were the type of people who doted on us, came to recitals and graduations, took us out for ice cream and candy at the local general store. My grandmother, specifically, was the kind of lady who got her hair and nails done on a very strict schedule, had mastered navigating QVC, and would call you out if you went more than 2 weeks without picking up the phone to talk to her. She was about as old school as it gets, and I adored her for it.
During my grandfather’s funeral I was a total mess. I walked up to the little memorial we’d constructed for him, saw his urn, and lost it. Something stopped me from shedding a tear before then, but suddenly everything was flowing out of me, the emotional dam come undone. In contrast, I cried the moment I found out my grandmother was gone, but when we got to her service, I was, comparatively, more composed. The thing that broke me was realizing just how much my dad, aunt, uncle, and entire family had given in caring for her. Love in action is one of the most truly moving things in the world. I wept because, despite their best effort, it wasn’t enough to keep her here with us. I wept because I was so overwhelmed by their admirable example. I wept because my dad lost his mom. At one point the pastor pointed out that her legacy would always be intact. He explained that her children and grandchildren had enough of their matriarch in us that she’d always be here. It was one of those eye-opening moments when I realized that this is how you achieve immortality. These bodies will come and go, but you live on forever in the people that you’ve loved, and who’ve loved you in return. I’m my own person, but I’m also a synthesis of my grandmother and her mother and her mother; an amalgamation that stretches back millennia, kissing Adam and Eve in the garden.
Before I leave for work in the morning, one of my last prayers is always, “Please protect and defend this house.” I skim through a rolodex of beloved faces; my mother and father, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. I can feel them all over, state to state, city to city. It’s like I’m taking a second to hold my tribe. There’s no way for me to see members of my familial line long passed. But I recognize my great-grandfather in the curve of my dad’s brow. I can hear my aunt in my sister’s laugh. Everyone’s here in some form.
***
I think that death will always hit us hard. There’s nothing that can really undo the hurt of someone you love dying. But I’m getting better at managing. Sure, there’s glory in a life well-lived, and it’s easy to celebrate those chapters in life’s peaks, but it’s the valleys that can knock you senseless. During those exhales, I have to keep reminding myself, “This is life, this is your life, in all of its painful, excruciatingly beautiful glory. Be present.” Easier said than done, but I’m ready to be accept each sweet breath that finds its way out of my lungs, and breathe deeply.
