This morning, I was listening to a story on the radio about a gentlemen who had been brought up in the family business of undertaking. The meat of the story was about the death of his father, and how he had requested that his sons prepare his body for burial.
To be honest, I was only half listening. But a specific line caught my attention, and as I often do, I wrote it down to ponder on a later date: We bury our dead, then we become them. In the context of the story, I believe the man was commenting on the inevitability of his own death. Burying his father brought up all the feelings of one's own mortality that you might expect.
Nevertheless, his words struck me as more complex than he had perhaps intended. Maybe because I tend to over think things. Maybe because this time of year is marked with the sadness of loss for my family. Maybe I had a premonition.
Whatever the reason, I continued to listen to the story, now a bit more carefully, and turned his words over in my mind. As I sat overanalyzing, my phone rang. It was my own father, and he greeted me, then quickly handed the phone to my mom.
Through tears, she told me that my grandmother, her mother and my last living grandparent, had passed away. And it was an announcement for which I was wholly unprepared. I'm still unprepared. I don't know why someone who was perfectly healthy is gone. I don't know how to be there for my mom, and I don't know to which degree I am allowed to grieve.
In a world where grandparents and grandchildren spend holidays and birthdays and the occasional random weekend together, it would be an overstatement to say my grandmother and I were close. But in my world, she was the only grandparent I had an actual relationship with.
That's not to say anything ill of my other grandparents--just that Grandma Potter and I talked voluntarily, on our own terms. She typed me letters on her typewriter and I sent her goofy cards and suggestions for exotic pet possibilities. She taught my daughter to call for moose through a toilet paper roll, and we do that every time we empty one. We were planning a trip to see her this fall.
I've taken the day to become accustomed to this loss, this lack of her in our lives, and I keep coming back to that line: We bury our dead, then we become them. And indeed, it is as complex as I'd imagined.
Yes, her death is a reminder to cherish your life and the lives of your loved ones because time cannot be taken for granted. We're all on our way out, and it's best not to forget that. But it strikes me as far more important to become our dead while we're still living. What better tribute to a loved one than to consciously become that part of him or her that you cherished the most?
The part of my grandmother that meant the most to me were her notes. It always struck me that she took the time to typewrite her notes. She chose lovely stationary, sometimes a card, and she must have had to lug that heavy machine from wherever it was stored to write to me. It seemed like a great effort to go to for someone, and it made me feel special. I have always tried to keep in touch with special friends by handwritten note, probably in great part due to her influence.
I wish I knew more about my grandmother, especially now. But what I have of her is enough. With six children and countless grand and great grand children, surely we all have enough of her to become a Barbara Potter that will never die.
To be honest, I was only half listening. But a specific line caught my attention, and as I often do, I wrote it down to ponder on a later date: We bury our dead, then we become them. In the context of the story, I believe the man was commenting on the inevitability of his own death. Burying his father brought up all the feelings of one's own mortality that you might expect.
Nevertheless, his words struck me as more complex than he had perhaps intended. Maybe because I tend to over think things. Maybe because this time of year is marked with the sadness of loss for my family. Maybe I had a premonition.
Whatever the reason, I continued to listen to the story, now a bit more carefully, and turned his words over in my mind. As I sat overanalyzing, my phone rang. It was my own father, and he greeted me, then quickly handed the phone to my mom.
Through tears, she told me that my grandmother, her mother and my last living grandparent, had passed away. And it was an announcement for which I was wholly unprepared. I'm still unprepared. I don't know why someone who was perfectly healthy is gone. I don't know how to be there for my mom, and I don't know to which degree I am allowed to grieve.
In a world where grandparents and grandchildren spend holidays and birthdays and the occasional random weekend together, it would be an overstatement to say my grandmother and I were close. But in my world, she was the only grandparent I had an actual relationship with.
That's not to say anything ill of my other grandparents--just that Grandma Potter and I talked voluntarily, on our own terms. She typed me letters on her typewriter and I sent her goofy cards and suggestions for exotic pet possibilities. She taught my daughter to call for moose through a toilet paper roll, and we do that every time we empty one. We were planning a trip to see her this fall.
I've taken the day to become accustomed to this loss, this lack of her in our lives, and I keep coming back to that line: We bury our dead, then we become them. And indeed, it is as complex as I'd imagined.
Yes, her death is a reminder to cherish your life and the lives of your loved ones because time cannot be taken for granted. We're all on our way out, and it's best not to forget that. But it strikes me as far more important to become our dead while we're still living. What better tribute to a loved one than to consciously become that part of him or her that you cherished the most?
The part of my grandmother that meant the most to me were her notes. It always struck me that she took the time to typewrite her notes. She chose lovely stationary, sometimes a card, and she must have had to lug that heavy machine from wherever it was stored to write to me. It seemed like a great effort to go to for someone, and it made me feel special. I have always tried to keep in touch with special friends by handwritten note, probably in great part due to her influence.
I wish I knew more about my grandmother, especially now. But what I have of her is enough. With six children and countless grand and great grand children, surely we all have enough of her to become a Barbara Potter that will never die.
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