Our minds fuck us over, don’t they? Yesterday I was a mess, full of rusted metal grieving. Today I am still raw, still a bit melted, but more confident somehow.
My paternal grandmother died suddenly Monday night, just ten days after my maternal grandfather died. My words were close to eloquent in speaking about him, but when I try to push my fingers toward the keyboard and eke out something about Grandma, they shake a little. I wrote on facebook that my words are failing me.
She was beautiful. She knew things before they happened. She was quiet. She lost her first husband, my father’s father, in a terrible car wreck while they were living in Puerto Rico during the fifties, and was then left alone with four very young children. She told me once that sirens from ambulances and firetrucks made her feel faint, almost sixty years after he died. He was incredibly handsome; she was incredibly beautiful. On Saturday morning her coffin will be lowered next to him, and the ashes of her second husband will be placed by her side within the satin coffin blanket.
I’ll have more to say. But not yet.
Her death has filled me with a sort of fire, a rhythm to my days that was absent before.