Grief and Memory and New Eyes

My dad stayed behind at the door while I headed to the car. He said he had something to tell my best friend's grandmother, who watched up during those summer days while we swam, played video games and barbies, and ate as many cheese balls as we could. I was surprised to find my mother in the car waiting for me, but I can't remember now if I knew right then that something was very wrong. I knew fast enough, as my mom told me that my grandmother was gone.

My sadness, my shock, my disbelief were immense. While I don't remember the words, I know my mom comforted me, held me close, cried with me.

I was recently struck so hard by this memory, that it brought tears to my eyes as effectively as if I'd been punched. What struck me the hardest though was not even the loss of my grandmother (whom I still miss all these years later), but my mom's loss. This juxtaposition of my mom's own pain with my pain; this realization that through her own grief, she still helped me to manage mine.

I never thought about that before, until my eyes became the eyes of a mother; and even then, still not until my grandmother was on my mind for other reasons. It was a new spin on, and a new dimension, to my grief that I hadn't previously explored... and I'm almost grateful for it.

My grandmother's memorial was a small event held at my grandparent's home, on a blanket in their yard, on a beautifully sunlit day. My Uncle's and parents talked about my grandmother, remembering her as she would have wanted - with tears for sure, but also with laughter and smiles.