On the Plane to My Grandma's Funeral

June 6, 2011

I write about graveyards. I crave the cemetery. Here, cell phones do not ring, the ping ping of new e-mails does not pull, pull, tug, tug at me. Here it is always the same, no matter where I am amongst the dead. Crumbled stones of the long forgotten, the once loved. Fresh flowers, some dead and composting, some weather beaten and faded plastic caricatures of nature. The swaying of the grass, the swish swish of the soft breeze through trees- for there are always trees- the life affirming bright twittering of an anonymous bird- this is life in this place where life is but a memory for a few- those who come to recall and remember, those who partake in the ritual- or those, like me, who need the stillness. For life is defined by motion and doing, as death is defined by this endless, breathless, dusty, forever and ever, nothing.

When I think of my grandma, that I will never see her again, that she will be among the nothing, it makes me breathless. When her husband, my grandfather died, it changed my life. I saw that death is always next to me. I realized I had to look at my fear and I realized that today is the time to DO. The day grandpa died, I was driving home. Sobbing, sobbing, swerving all over the road, along highway one. It is a two lane road with no shoulder. I finally pulled over, and just started screaming, alone in my car. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!! NO! NO! NO!” I pounded the steering wheel over and over again. Why?

I went into free fall, I started drinking too much, doing too many drugs. It hurt too bad. I listened to Joy Division all the time. I remember one night being totally fucked up at a club, dancing right by the speakers, and “Novelty” came on. I just closed my eyes, and bawled. How could the best person who had taught me so much be gone, and gone forever?

And now my gran is gone too. I wish I could know for sure that she is ok. I understand now why religion exists. Because it hurts too bad to think that she is just no more, to think that this magical person, my confidante, someone who believed in me, who understood me better than pretty much anyone I have ever known (hell, she has known me my entire life!)- she will never be around to cheer me on, to read me one of her poems, to inspire me by regaling me with tales of her own high jinks. She gave me advice on everything from boys to school to travel. I remember so clearly coming home from trips to the beach as a little girl- grandma having a cup of coffee, me with my hot chocolate, a treat I never got at home. It was those moments growing up that made me feel special. She always made the person she was with feel that they were the center of the world- or at least she made me feel that way. I will always remember those times, looking through the junk drawer in her kitchen as she made dinner, digging for rubber bands (which seemed especially cool since they were at grandma’s house) or eating granola at her house out of the glass dispenser- it seemed so exotic.

Grandma always cheered me on, encouraging me to do sports, always coming to my swim meets, and being equally proud of my scholarly achievements. She made me believe I could do and be anything.

I write about graveyards. I do not want to think that will be the only way I can ever visit my grandma again. She was too wonderful, too inspiring, too much of a firecracker to be put in the ground and forgotten. She will live on- through my writing, through my stories, hopefully in every stroke of good things I do. If I can make a difference for one person, it will only be reflecting the lessons that Grandma taught me- to never give up hope, to keep pushing forward, and, in her own words, to always celebrate being “bodacious.” I will always love and cherish you, Grandma. I will strive to make you proud.