A little over a month ago my grandmother passed away. It was expected in many ways. She would have been 94 this month and, honestly, she’s been ready and waiting. I’m happy for her. But, I’m sad for me. I’m sad for my mom. I’m … just sad. It’s more than just the end of a chapter. It’s the end of many, many chapters that she’s been a part of. I feel so much gratitude when I think about that. For 44 years she was a part of my life and I was a part of hers.
At her funeral, I decided that I wanted to share a little of my thoughts, feelings and memories … even though I knew that standing up in front of everyone would make me so nervous. And, I was nervous. But, not terribly. It felt right and I’m so glad that I did that … for her and for me.
Today, I wanted to share most of those words here. My own little tribute to a woman that I loved very much.
My Grandma
So many memories and miles are wrapped up in my grandmother … in my feelings for her and of her. In the comfort of her. In the comfort of her home. To express it all. To pay proper tribute to it all. It feels a little impossible. I wanted to try. In my own way. In my own words.
She was a constant that never changed. My Grandma.
Wherever I was, whatever was going on in my life, in the world … I could come to 505 Gum Street and everything would be just as it’s always been. The comfort of that! Like a warm hug.
One of my life’s most precious gifts.
The sound of your grandmother’s voice. Is there anything quite so beautiful? Quite so beloved? Quite so important.
Her home was a constant that never changed. Every so often, the upholstery on a sofa might be refreshed, but nothing was ever rearranged. It remained always how it had been no matter how much time had passed. Upstairs in the baby blue tiled bathroom, on a small shelf, you’d find a bottle of Avon Bubble Bath from 1984. I kid you not. It’s been there since I was 4!
I’d find Grandma sitting in her chair. When I was younger, I’d find both Grandma and PaPa in their respective chairs in their TV room. She would be knitting. Well, I would call it knitting, and she would correct me. Every single time. It’s crocheting. I didn’t know the difference. I really still don’t. I’d find her reading. Her nose always in a book. Most recently, I’d find her watching a western of some sort. The volume, extra, extra high.
My Grandma was a lady of many layers … most of which we didn’t get to see. Tidy secrets kept under wrap. In many ways I didn’t know her at all … what she was excited by, passionate about … what made her ache … what was she thinking when lost quietly in her thoughts.
How strange it is, that you can know a person so well and not know them at all.
I never saw a tear shed. She wasn’t big on emotions. A little more so toward the end. During our goodbyes. In recent years those all felt final and that was hard.
So many memories.
So many stories.
Stories I should have recorded, written down. Held sacred. Stories about the grocery store her family owned. The day they got electricity. Stories of her time in college, of living in the sorority house and curfews and shared bath water. Stories of going to college to get her MRS degree. Stories of dating PaPa. Stories of how my own mother got to “graduate” from Marshall twice. Stories of moving to Williamson, raising their family. Stories of their travels, of their visits to Florida, of their time at the lake.
I loved these stories. I loved hearing the history of a life lived. Her life. Yet, so many I’ll never be able to recall. Locked away. The way memories often are.
My Grandma was strong and elegant.
She could be funny.
She could be hard.
She could be judgey.
She wasn’t always warm, but I always felt her warmth.
She was good to me.
As a granddaughter, I felt like I got her best. But, there were times I wanted more.
I would say that we were close, and yet, I did not get to know her in all the ways that I would have liked. Why? It’s as if that extra closeness was an effort we each decided not to take. Why? If I could have known all the parts of her, all her stories, I would be richer for it. I might even know myself better, my own mother better.
An arms length is far too far sometimes.
There are choices we make without intending to make them. Decisions we never actually decide on. There are regrets. There will always be things we could have done better. When we say goodbye, we feel the sharpness of things left undone, unsaid. It is part of our grief.
That is the humanity of it all.
And, for this … with the loss of her … I feel something deep inside of me chip off and falling away. A sadness. A fracture. One that will become part of me. A crack I must own. A scar I will wear.
Yet, we must not forget the beauty of it. A sunset dipping into the horizon. The absolute miracle of it. A life lived. A love shared. So much beauty in the raw truth of it. It’s all woven into the very fabric that makes each of us who we are. She loved me. I loved her. She will always be with me. She will always be a part of me. She will always be a part of you. And, that’s the good stuff.
{Written for Benetta Louise Davis Burchett ~ January 5, 1931 to December 12, 20214}
