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Grief Doesn’t Knock. It Just Lets Itself In
She was ready to die. Why couldn’t I let her go?
When my grandmother died, the first thing coworkers asked was, “Were you close?”
That’s a complicated question to answer. Three of my grandparents died when I was young, so my grandmother took on all of their duties.
Out of my siblings, I believe that I spent the most time with her. She gave me crayons and coloring books. She baked cookies and took me swimming. Frequently as a child, I had sleepovers at her house. She lived right by the highway, and at night, the rushing cars sounded like ocean waves.
When I was older, she schooled me in gardening and nutrition, business and psychology. She encouraged my writing, but not in the “write, but have a backup plan” way other people did. She believed that I could make a career of it, and told me so.
She was a voracious reader, and my brother and I still have many books she gave us. I still have her letters somewhere, in a bundle. I wish she’d written a book. I’d like to read it.
She had a stormy temper, which I inherited. She said whatever was on her mind, and so did I, and the two of us were like gunpowder and a match. But she helped cultivate a fierceness in me as well as a softness. Sometimes, she knew, you have to…
