good grief Grandma
good grief Grandma, the last time I saw you, you came out onto your third story apartment patio to wave to me and look at the sky. We couldn’t speak; you were too far away. But the future was entering us at that moment, and I think we both knew.
good grief Grandma, the window I had into your life was so small. Phone calls here and there. Sunday night dinners and holidays around the dining room table. Fewer and fewer outings as the years went on and the walker was needed more. But what about the other parts of your life? What were all the in between moments like?
good grief Grandma, I don’t know all that happened to make you so afraid. From the time I started playing on the swingset all the way to traveling far away, you were always imagining the worst case scenarios. Common sense is one thing but I am determined to transform the fear that has been passed down through the generations of women in our family.
good grief Grandma, I called to talk to you, or rather at you, in late July. You were laying in a hospital bed in my parents living room that we only use for holiday celebrations. I’m not sure if you were conscious but I told you about a sunflower patch, a dog I walked, and a new recipe I made in the orange dishes you gave me for Christmas. I didn’t tell you I drove further in the opposite direction away from you because I was in love. I didn’t tell you I think that meant I wouldn’t make it to Wisconsin before you died. I didn’t tell you I thought I was ok with that.
good grief Grandma, your daughter forgot her social security number at the funeral home and they couldn’t finish the death certificate. Hell, she forgot how many digits there are in a social security number. The here then not here of death was too overwhelming for our brains to make sense of everything all at once.
good grief Grandma, for someone who didn’t have a lot of stuff, you sure had a lot of stuff. It took six of us two weeks to empty and clean your one bedroom apartment. Makes me think about what I actually need.
good grief, Grandma, is lining your cookbooks up on the shelf next to my own. The napkins you used as bookmarks are still there separating the pages. Touching what you’ve touched keeps me connected to more than just memory.
good grief Grandma, is dreaming of you the morning you died. You knew you weren’t coming back, and for once in your life you weren’t scared. Mom called to tell me the news but I already knew. You had told me yourself.
good grief, Grandma, is remembering all the dance recitals, basketball games, and Christmas concerts you were there for. We were so lucky to have you so close for so long.
good grief, Grandma, is listening to Ruth tell me she misses you. Misses talking to you. I tell her I miss you too. She’s the only one who will offer up a glimpse into her own grief. Somehow, this makes it better. Somehow this makes mine ok too.
good grief Grandma, is wearing your gold hoop earrings to your funeral. I am the continuation of you just as one wave leads on to the next. These earrings were our baton and with them I carry you on in my own way.
each good grief participant was given the opportunity to contribute something to the project
see below for this participant’s contribution
Sometimes there are moments that seem ungraspable while they are happening. The pain and fear and uneasiness can result in wanting to push through and just get it over with. Whatever “it” is. As a photographer, these are the moments in my life I have been drawn to examine more closely through the lens. Grandma was in in-home hospice at my parents’ house and died in their living room on a Monday morning. That night when I made it to town, I walked through the house with my camera as a way to try and make sense of what had just happened. She was no longer there but reminders of her were everywhere. The next day, before anyone started cleaning, I went through her apartment and took pictures of the objects that had collected her touch over the years. The photographs that follow are both a documentation and reflection of my experience of her death.
