From the very little experience I've had with death thus far, I've found I don't want to talk about it right away. Not just that I don't want to, but there is nothing to be said yet; death is instantaneous, but my thoughts and feelings are not.
I know I need to let everyone grieve as they must, but I seem to have less and less patience lately. Whatever it is within me, I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to hear about it.
I wouldn't say I'm sad. I think I've done my mourning. I'm happy that she's free--she was just in pain and unhappy before. Why should anyone wish to continue that?--yet I wouldn't quite say I'm happy. Not exactly. I do feel an immense relief. In fact, I didn't even realize how heavily that responsibility and presence weighed on me until it fell away. Thursday night I was hysterically depressed, walking barefoot down dark streets, not caring that it wasn't safe, feeling that the next month and a half was an impossible eternity. And now... now I feel like I can make it.
Terri came home today with a pair of lovely dollar-something-jeans in need of a minor repair. There was a rip in the seam on the outside of the right leg at the hip, maybe an inch long. I was grumpy when she asked me to fix it, and I remained grumpy for several minutes, but once I started sewing, I felt much better.
I love doing slow, meticulous things. I love to untangle knots, dig holes, edit texts, hand-wash dishes... and I love sewing by hand. I love the sensation of calm focus and the simplicity of the task. The sweep of my hand as I pull the thread through feels like taking a deep breath.
This is my tribute to my grandmother.
But in a statement of freedom, I'm not sewing the way she would; I'm not measuring a thing and my stitches aren't straight. I want my things to look hand-sewn; why would I want to mimic a machine? I do thread the needle like she did, though.
When mom called and told me she'd died, I asked if she wanted me to come over, if she was alone. Dad was with her, so she left the decision up to me. I thought... and decided I shouldn't; better to remember her alive, and better to spare my chemically imbalanced brain a possibly highly distressing sight. But then she came over and I kept thinking about it... and a vague sense of duty and my writing curiosity took over.
The first thing to strike me was the smell--faint, but noticeable. It was strange... strange that my body responded so quickly, death. Then, walking through her familiar kitchen, to the side of her blue recliner, I saw her. She was so pale. From movies, books, and general knowledge, I expected that, but was still a little surprised. She was beautiful. Her forehead was smooth, all her muscles finally relaxed. But she did not look peacefully asleep. Kind of peaceful, but mostly just dead (reminding me of Johnny from The Outsiders), and still very beautiful.
I saw my father cry for the first time in my life. They were light tears, the tears of someone unused to the sensation, someone who can't quite stop them, but can't really keep them going. He monologued about grandma and came over to hug me. I very, very rarely hug him back, but this time I did. In that moment he was not my father. He was a very sad man who was crying and telling me he loved me. Not "Daddy loves you," but a tear-streaked, heart-felt "I love you, Tracey." He was not my father. He was a human being. And I told this man something I haven't said to him since I was very small. It took conscious effort, but after a pause, I said, "Love you, too." And in that moment, I really did.
Those sentiments faded the next day, as sentiments do, but that's okay. It happened once now, and I'll do my best to make it happen again someday. And if I never do, that's okay, too. I may never love my father, but I can love his humanity.
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