my grandmother, memories, and grief {self portrait challenge}
With a loved one. With my grandmother. With memories and grief.
I cannot talk to her anymore, but I can surround myself with little pieces of her.
A few weeks ago, I wrote a poem about my regret that I did not brush my grandmother’s hair away from her face when I saw her in her casket (I hate that I just typed “her casket”); you can read this poem here. I keep reading this poem, and I cry every time. The feelings in this poem are tangible to me; I feel like I can actually touch them in the air in front of me.
After she passed away, I wished I had a carpet bag like Mary Poppins so that I could sweep the entire contents of her room into my bag and take it home with me. I didn’t want to recreate her room in my home; rather, I just wanted to go through each little piece of that room. I felt like she would have wanted me to do that. But as the granddaughter, it was not my place. There are things I would have taken with me. Little things. Like the pen next to her bed, a tube of lipstick, a piece of paper with a grocery list, a hair pin, socks, the sweatshirt we bought her that had chickadees on it, her radio that she would listen to at night. But I didn’t know how to explain that I wanted these things. Everyone was dealing with their grief, and again, it was not really my place. I may have been the closest person to her, yet I had a role. I had to step out of the way.
A few weeks after the funeral, my aunt sent me a package that had a tote bag and these slippers in it. The tote bag is an “antique” Epcot Center bag that my grandmother would have purchased on a trip to Disney World with my family. I am the Disney lover in the family so my aunt sent it to me. It was actually the bag my grandmother packed with little things to take with her to the hospital (at least I think this is true). Her Ponds Cold Cream and other things. I sent my grandmother these slippers as a silly little gift a few months before she died. When I was at her house when we were there for the funeral, they were sitting right next to her bed. When I opened up the package that contained these two items, I was struck by this realization that my grandmother had been wearing these slippers. That she had been alive with her feet snuggled warmly in these slippers. Alive. And she had touched them. I felt so far away from her all the way across the country from everything that was hers, that I was simply overwhelmed by this reality that these slippers had been worn by her. I left them inside the bag and tucked the bag far up into my closet. I just couldn’t go there.
Today, I reached up to that high closet shelf and took down the box that had kept this tote bag and slippers far away from my mind and heart. I pulled out the slippers and slid them onto my feet.
My grief feels even deeper and wider lately. Bigger than it did seventeen months ago when she died. I have moved to a place where I just let the sobs and moans come and settle in sometimes. Last week when Jon was working late at school, I found myself sobbing while warming spaghettios on the stove. I was thinking about how even though my grandparents have a microwave they always heat things up this way. Our microwave recently sizzled and died, so we are doing the same, but not by choice. I had the thought that I would have to call her and laugh about that the next morning. Then I remembered. She is totally dead. I found myself just moaning through tears as I stirred my dinner, poured it into a bowl, and settled on the couch. Moaning seems to be my new way of grieving when I am alone and the feelings bubble up.
My aunt also sent me this framed picture of a stem of lily of the valley. I have the same one up in my home office. I took the picture out of the frame and realized it was a card I had sent my grandmother about twelve years ago. She had kept it and put it in a frame. Little did I realize we were both looking at the same card each day. I learned to love lily of the valley because they always seemed to be in bloom when I visited my grandparents’ house as a child. Their smell will forever make me think of her. They are our favorite flower.
When the family was together for the funeral, my aunt and mom decided that I should have the turquoise ring we bought for my grandma when I worked at a Native American store in Jackson, WY while I was in college. To be honest, I am the only one with fingers the same size as my grandmother’s (not small), but it did make sense that I would have it. I wear it and think about how she would wear it and probably think of me. And now I think of her.
I think what I feel sad about now is this idea that is captured in a line from a Trisha Yearwood song, “we were just getting to the good part.” I feel like we were just getting to this place where I was learning more about her, her past. A place where she was opening up a little bit more. And I feel like this has been stolen from me. I had so much I wanted to tell her and ask her and learn from her. I still don’t know how to make a pie crust. I. Have. No. Idea. She taught me at least twice. But I needed her to show me again.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
Kahil Gibran
(to see more self portrait challenge photographs, click here.)
liz lamoreux
Reader Comments (28)
When you write about your grandmother I often don't know what to say. Remember once on the phone we talked about how we wish there was a symbol we could use on blogs to let the other person know we read their post and were here and cared, but just didn't know what to say?
I wish we had come up with one that day.
But here is mine for now
{<3}
oh honey, i am struck always by your love. it is so deep and wide. thinking of you..
I am so sorry you are hurting so much.
What a wonderful grandmother she must've been to be so beloved by you. Thank you - it is a beautiful 'remembering' of her right there in your post. Love those slippers!
I share so much of what you write, Liz.
I was very close to both of my grandmothers. They were full of fun, but also always listened to me in way other adults did not as I grew up. In turn I loved to listen to them, and although there is so much I would've still loved to know, I find myself knowing more, and being asked more about them by other members of my family, beacuse we always took the time to listen and be with each other.
I never knew them in true adulthood, and this will always be one of the greatest regrets of my life. They died when I was 15 and 18, and being one of many children and grandchildren, I did not have the chance to keep anything special from them. (Another regret, I'm afraid)
I still weep over both of them, when the mood catches me (like when I wrote the poem yesterday), 15 and 12 years later. Because they are part of me and helped to build the inner life I depend on as a poet.
Liz, I hear your grief. It is painful but exquisite and beautiful, because it honours you and your grandmother and how you grew entwined with each other.
Much love to you x x x x x
I'm always struck by your ability to express your grief so eloquently and beautifully. I'm sorry for your loss and pain Liz and I know that it is a process; one that gets a little easier to deal with but can show itself when you least expect it. I think you are dealing remarkably and honestly; you face your grief by owning and honoring it and I admire you tremendously for that my dear.
Much love to you! xoxo
I recently lost my grandfather who I had a special relationship with. I can relate very strongly to this post and your grieving. Thank you for sharing.
{{{{{Liz Elayne}}}}}}
I am so sorry for your loss...your words here were just beautiful and aching. One great sorrow of mine is that I didn't know my paternal grandmother at all, and my Mom's mom died when I was a very little girl. I honor this relationship--your writing was so deep here.
Liz, this touches me deeply. I understand the need to have something that belonged to the one you love. My house holds several of my sister's belongings, a table, lamps, paintings, little knick-knacky things, books. I love them because she did and my home feels warmer since their arrival. Sometimes I even wear some of her clothes - it feels like a hug and comforts me. I haven't begun the grieving moan yet, but I feel it deep in my gut. The Irish call it "keening" and honor its sound.
liz, i have just read your poem to your grandmother. it is stunningly beautiful, and lovingly tender.
i am sorry for your loss. your grandmother knows.
Oh how I honor you-that you are processing this in such a real way-your grief.
It brings up the same feelings you quote from the song. My mother and I were also just getting to the good part.
As our closeness returned and started to blossom after she was diagnosed, I think I often consider it a gift that came with the cancer.
It saddens me to see now that in fact it came because of the love we shared instead.
I ramble on.....
You are in my thoughts and heart. I can imagine the pain you feel.
I am sending loving energy your way.
XOXO
after a year and a half i thought i would be healed - and this shows how little i knew about grief in the days when i didn't know that it reorders your life so completely. it is only now, for us, that we see that life ticks on, and they do not come back.... the pie crust made me smile - it's the smallest things that we wish we could have back isn't it. for me, even the arguments were bliss compared to this.... this horrible endless silence. i am with you sweetheart, i really am. big hugs - this was beautifully written xx
i won't lie.
it does get harder
way before it gets easier.
and i don't know when it gets easier.
what i do know
is that it is better to let it come
when it comes...
to go with it,
to cry, to moan, to be sad...
don't push it away or try to
deny it...
it has always felt
cyclical to me, if that makes sense,
it comes in cycles,
it ebbs and flows,
it builds and breaks...
this is a beautiful post ... such tender remembrances ... I felt the same way about my grandma & even though it has not been 16 years since she died, I still have little momentos around & will still cry thinking about her beautiful presence in my life.
Liz, I'm approaching my Grandmom's 10th graduation anniversary this year and still there are times I feel such deep sorrow.
Yet other times, I sense her presence, swear that I smell her in the breeze and feel she's merely a phone call away.
Thinking of you,
-Nina
nina866.blogspot.com
oh girl, i don't even know if i have words...but i want to give you words because that's all i have to give you.
sharing your grief has been such a gift to me. i have not had to face the death of anyone really close to me...but i know that day is coming...soon... and by sharing your struggle, your tears, your emptiness, by laying it here for us to witness, you have taught me so much. you have taught me that there will be grief and giving it a voice is a choice you can make.
i love you dearly and wish i could hold your hand when you need to cry.
peace to you,
me.
The simplicity of the picture contrasts beautifully with the eloquence of your words in expressing the anguish of the death of a beloved one. Simple and complex...just like life and death.
I am so sorry for the passing of your grandmother.
Thats how I felt with my nana too when she died in 1990, that we were just getting to the good part, or at least the "even better" parts since I was getting old enough to visit her on my own where she lived in New Orleans. She died a month before i was supposed to spend spring break with her my senior year and I've always hated that, being cheated out of what I know would have been new and amazing memories between just the two of us. It does get easier. I feel I can say that 16 years on, but sometimes something will cause the pain to sear anew right through my heart, but yet, we are the lucky ones, to have had such extraordinary relationships with our grandmothers. I never knew how many simply were denied this precious gift.
Liz, whenever I read your words about your grandmother, even though your grief is so palpable and moving, I am really left thinking about the beauty of the closeness you had. What a truly amazing relationship. You are very lucky to have had such a wonderful grandmother. I'm sorry it's still etting harder. Hugs.
Wow. I am lucky that my own grandmother (well, both of them, actually, but I am closer to one in particular) is still alive. Through she is in her 80s, so i know that one day I will be in a place similar to yours. Thank you for sharing so honestly and clearly -- I won't say that you were lucky to have had her because you so obviously already know that and that's probably why it still hurts so much.
Hang in there and keep those feet warm.
I really love the way you put your true heart out there with thses words... I hope it helps your heart to heal.
I had a special relationship with my grandpa, and so I hear you here. Sometimes we each have a soul that we are just so bound to, and when they leave, it is such a true, true pain for us.
I really wanted to keep a little part of him, like you say. I don't know how I was brave enough, but I worked up the courage to ask for a tiny bit of his ashes to keep in a silver locket. I am happy you have those slippers... little things are big things.
:)
Love you Liz
Sending you a cotton ball love hug so the burden won't get any heavier.
xoxoxod
Liz, why is it that every time you write about your grandma, I find big tears rolling down my face? You write so beautifully about your love for her. I think Kahil Gibran got it right with that quote you've shared. And I think this is what I was trying to write about yesterday. Life and loss and love...and those slippers and crying over spaghettios. Oh Liz, your heart is so big. And your grandma's slippers look good on you. ;) Sometimes I wear my grandpa's old sweater for the same reason. Today I saw a sweater in a store and it reminded me of him. I wanted to buy it for my husband, because he has always reminded me a little bit of him. My grandpa lives on in the most unexpected ways.
But it's my dog that I miss like you miss your grandma...and my oh my...the tears, they flow...but life is full. What if the life she was, is the life you ARE? Maybe what we love the most never leaves us completely.
love to you.
j.
hi liz elayne,
thank you for your comment on my photo. there are days when i look at those pictures from thailand, and feel as though i were still knee deep in all its sand.
i know grief is a long process, but recalling the memories of your grandmother does ease the pain.
and i'm really sorry that you feel like you lost your grandmother before the "good part" - but you know what, for you to come to the realization that you thought the "good part" was coming... you were probably already there, already in it.
wishing you love,
michelle