In Memoriam
There's a reason I haven't written on here much over the past month. I knew that I had to write about Granny - not just an abstract post like In the Shadow of Death - and I wasn't ready yet. I can't write on this blog until I talk about her death, because it's a bit like falling off the horse. She always read my blogging, even when she complained she didn't understand the words I was using. When I was in Rome, she'd see my pictures and ask me questions about where I'd been and what I was doing. For a while, my excuse was that I needed time to recover from the emotional drainage of the funeral. In reality, it's hard for me to write knowing that my dedicated audience of one is gone. Yet the last thing she'd want is for me to stop writing because of her.
So for better or worse, this post is being written, because it's time for me to cry. Please forgive the many writing errors I know will crop up.
Sometimes, my brain tries to trick me into ignoring this sorrow, pretending that Granny's still there, just a phone call away. Even worse, sometimes my treacherous memory tries to push her out of my life and pretend she didn't exist, asking "Who was this woman? Why are you so upset?" in a vague attempt to push away the tears. Then the memories come flooding back.
Sitting on the front porch talking about everything and nothing. Telling me I could call any time of day or night. Texting me, worried, because I hadn't told her I was safely home from a trip. Telling me to "be good", then laughingly adding "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," which left a lot of leeway! Assuring us that our secrets would be kept, what happens at Granny's house stays at Granny's house. Going to the grocery store for a tenderloin and special treats. Walking out to visit Papa's grave. Washing our clothes when we stayed overnight. Cooking chicken and noodles in her big red crockpot. Making sure we had everything we needed, and giving us more that we didn't. Skyping with me in Rome, just like I was sitting at her kitchen table. Taking care of Aunt Ruth or Cousin Bill's finances and bills, her accountant's experience blending with her diehard work ethic usque ad mortem. Her last words to me, telling me to be good and go home.
So many memories, but I wish I had more, and that the ones I have were clearer in my mind. I wish I could have memories of her and Papa, for the love between them is only a story to me. I wish I could have memories of her at my wedding, or holding my first child. I wish she could tell me that it's all right, she's not really gone, she's just can't talk for a while. I wish I didn't have to live the rest of my life without her counsel and her humor.
The problem with losing someone like Granny is that the best way, in fact the only way, to keep loving and honoring her is to try to be just like her. That's a challenge to me, but one I'll pick up, for I'm from her stock. If I want to remember her, I have to work as hard as she did, love as generously, and counsel as wisely. And every time I remember her, I'll send up a quick prayer thanking God for the blessing she was, and the blessing that my memories of her always will be.
So for better or worse, this post is being written, because it's time for me to cry. Please forgive the many writing errors I know will crop up.
Sometimes, my brain tries to trick me into ignoring this sorrow, pretending that Granny's still there, just a phone call away. Even worse, sometimes my treacherous memory tries to push her out of my life and pretend she didn't exist, asking "Who was this woman? Why are you so upset?" in a vague attempt to push away the tears. Then the memories come flooding back.
Sitting on the front porch talking about everything and nothing. Telling me I could call any time of day or night. Texting me, worried, because I hadn't told her I was safely home from a trip. Telling me to "be good", then laughingly adding "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," which left a lot of leeway! Assuring us that our secrets would be kept, what happens at Granny's house stays at Granny's house. Going to the grocery store for a tenderloin and special treats. Walking out to visit Papa's grave. Washing our clothes when we stayed overnight. Cooking chicken and noodles in her big red crockpot. Making sure we had everything we needed, and giving us more that we didn't. Skyping with me in Rome, just like I was sitting at her kitchen table. Taking care of Aunt Ruth or Cousin Bill's finances and bills, her accountant's experience blending with her diehard work ethic usque ad mortem. Her last words to me, telling me to be good and go home.
So many memories, but I wish I had more, and that the ones I have were clearer in my mind. I wish I could have memories of her and Papa, for the love between them is only a story to me. I wish I could have memories of her at my wedding, or holding my first child. I wish she could tell me that it's all right, she's not really gone, she's just can't talk for a while. I wish I didn't have to live the rest of my life without her counsel and her humor.
The problem with losing someone like Granny is that the best way, in fact the only way, to keep loving and honoring her is to try to be just like her. That's a challenge to me, but one I'll pick up, for I'm from her stock. If I want to remember her, I have to work as hard as she did, love as generously, and counsel as wisely. And every time I remember her, I'll send up a quick prayer thanking God for the blessing she was, and the blessing that my memories of her always will be.
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