December First

It is your birthday. You would have been 90 years old today. 

"90?" you would have said. "That's too damn old anyway." 

There is a reason why I'm like this. 

I went to visit you in the cemetery on Thanksgiving for the first time since you died. 

I didn't think for these two years that I could do it, so I didn't. I put it on my life list, even, because it was something I really wanted to do this year, but I had no idea when I'd manage it. And then I went to this two-hour yoga class that morning for the holiday (yoga people like giving thanks and gratitude and all of that bullshit. It's why it's probably good that I hang around them a lot.) And in savasana I set a couple of unintentional intentions (because that is also how yoga messes with your head. It clears a lot of the garbage out and makes you think good things are your idea.) 

So I decided to go see you, that it was time, and that I was capable, and that it was a good use of my time on that particular day. 

I told Sarah on the way that I was going, in the context of another conversation, and she kind of went with me, because she shows up for me like that. She was in my phone in my pocket, anyway. She said she would help me do it  when she saw it on my list, which I thought was the most uncommonly sweet thing that I'd never have to take her up on, and yet that's how it turned out. 

(You would like her so much, because she is straightforward and not sketchy and truthful and fun, like you. You would appreciate that she is a good friend to me, that she is available to me at times like that when I am sad and resolute, when most people would have nothing to do with me at all, also like you, as it turns out. You would make her pancakes and bacon and point her to the Jack Daniels under the sink. And for that, among many other reasons, she would like you too.)

I stopped at My Mom's Place and the same lady who has been there for 20 years was selling flowers. I cried behind my sunglasses because I suddenly couldn't stop when I told her I was there to see my grandparents. She probably hears so many of these awkward stories a day, but she responds like they're new. She's a nice person. She and her son sold me some roses, the color of fall in the sun.

As I told Sarah, she is always open in daylight, even when you pull up there most afraid she won't be. 

You were there. 

There is no nameplate quite yet, which made it easier, I admit. It eased me in. But I knew you were there, because I remembered leaving you there almost two years ago. 

I talked with you, with both of you. I sat scraping dirt and leaves away from the granite while the most amazing late November sun went down around us. I told you things weren't great, but I was pretty sure that they would be okay. I told you that I knew you weren't just there, that you were everywhere I went, because that is true, although I guessed you'd know better than me where you were? I don't know.

I thanked you, again, to the air where I hoped it mattered, for giving me so much of whatever it is that makes it possible to carry this on, responsibility, faith, family, whatever, I don't know. I asked for your help. I did. I need it, not knowing where it will come from, but asking anyway. 

I miss you every day. I will, in some way conscious or not, until I die, because you were one of the indelible prints upon my life. We were buddies since I was born. You taught me to read, and to regulate myself in certain situations, and to ease into someone loving me for no reason. You made me sugar bread and beat me at Yatzhee almost every time and took down the clothes while I walked round and round the oak tree with the dogs.

You also taught me to fight back, to (maybe ill-advisedly) say the thing not quite appreciated in mixed company. You walked with me hand in hand down the street to Nanny's and you were the only person in the world who could always, always remind me in a way that didn't piss me off but instead felt like a Valentine that Jesus and Mary would always love me even if I didn't see it right then. 

You were to me like breathing, and no matter how old you were when you died, which seems to be what people use to measure the impact of a death, it was still the worst thing I've had yet to endure . And I wish I believed what you always taught me to, the part where we are together, but I'm not so sure about that. I just know that every thank you, every memory, every action that happens in my life as a result of what it meant to be your granddaughter for 38 years matters enough to me to create some kind of secular heaven, even if I'm the only one who ever sees it. That is enough for me, and I am grateful, for you, so much, the most. 

Comments

[Sarah]

This is a beautiful post and that photo is breathtaking.

You are right. I would have loved her. Especially if she made me bacon. And you are right that I am here for whatever I can be here for.

I love you. I am proud of you for doing this and so is she.

[kdiddy]

Love this post. And you.

[Tracy]

This, this is just lovely. That amazing image made me cry thinking of my own special Nana who passed away last year at 103. (!!) Thank you for this breathtaking post.

[TwoBusy]

Oh, my. Laurie: that was beautiful.

And what an incredible testimony to your grandmother, that she was a woman capable of inspiring something like this. Wow.

[Pgoodness]

Absolutely perfect and beautiful.

[Genie]

That photo is a wonderful pairing to all the wonderful things you wrote. I miss you and I'm sorry she's gone and I think about you often.

xoxox

[flutter]

You are some kind of special, White. Clearly you embody so much of her.

[Leslie]

Beautiful post Laurie. You are so open and vulnerable. I'm glad you did this. I love what you said about an intentional intention. Like your heart made the decision without consulting with your brain.

How lucky are you, to have such a wonderful women to guide you and love you. She would be proud of this, proud and honored. xo

[Leslie]

Um, I meant an UNintentional intention... Sorry for the typo!

[Rebecca]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJoWq5IidXs&feature=player_embedded