Notes to my Family
I am use to being thousands of miles away. I have seen friends and lovers fall away, I have let go and been let go of more times than I can remember but the one thing that has always been constant is my family. We never, never let go of each other. We may fight, we may dislike, but we always love and hold on.
Without a voice, she called him and grandpa came. Without strength, she pulled him in. Without water, she softened her lips. With all the love eternity may grant, she kissed him goodbye. My grandmother said farewell on her own terms with her own man.
My grandma has died.
She is me, she is my mother’s mother, she is my blood. I know this because Grandma’s final words, before the last stroke took her speech, were a curse-ladened tirade of defiance ending in a demand for whiskey. Only my blood would act so audacious and amazingly full of life in the face of death. Even now, as I sit her sad and suddenly a little bit lonelier, I think of that moment and smile.
I have always taken great pride in saying I am like my grandfather: I see him every time I disarm someone with a silly joke, every time I walk unaffected through another earthquake, or whenever a deep determination drives me to push myself harder. But in truth, I am guilty of not knowing my grandparents. I love them with all my heat but I couldn’t tell you how they met or the struggles they went through on their journey to love. I can tell you that every time I came to visit they greeted me with hugs and a cup of coffee. I remember sitting Indian style on the floor as grandma told me stories of how bad mom was, or running in mach terror as grandpa chased after me with those damn tickle fingers of his.
I did not know them as people; I knew them as my grandparents. I still see grandma looking on with pride as all the cousins stood together wearing our neon pink, green and white Nebraska sweaters, or grandpa showing us how to inflate our biceps by just blowing on our thumbs. Most of all I remember that my family; my cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brother and sisters, mom and dad, we all laughed. We always laugh.
I am use to being thousands of miles away but the one thing that has always been constant is my family; we always love and hold on. Deneta Genevieve Sullivan is gone but her legacy is everywhere.
I love you grandma.
I am use to being thousands of miles away. I have seen friends and lovers fall away, I have let go and been let go of more times than I can remember but the one thing that has always been constant is my family. We never, never let go of each other. We may fight, we may dislike, but we always love and hold on.
Without a voice, she called him and grandpa came. Without strength, she pulled him in. Without water, she softened her lips. With all the love eternity may grant, she kissed him goodbye. My grandmother said farewell on her own terms with her own man.
My grandma has died.
She is me, she is my mother’s mother, she is my blood. I know this because Grandma’s final words, before the last stroke took her speech, were a curse-ladened tirade of defiance ending in a demand for whiskey. Only my blood would act so audacious and amazingly full of life in the face of death. Even now, as I sit her sad and suddenly a little bit lonelier, I think of that moment and smile.
I have always taken great pride in saying I am like my grandfather: I see him every time I disarm someone with a silly joke, every time I walk unaffected through another earthquake, or whenever a deep determination drives me to push myself harder. But in truth, I am guilty of not knowing my grandparents. I love them with all my heat but I couldn’t tell you how they met or the struggles they went through on their journey to love. I can tell you that every time I came to visit they greeted me with hugs and a cup of coffee. I remember sitting Indian style on the floor as grandma told me stories of how bad mom was, or running in mach terror as grandpa chased after me with those damn tickle fingers of his.
I did not know them as people; I knew them as my grandparents. I still see grandma looking on with pride as all the cousins stood together wearing our neon pink, green and white Nebraska sweaters, or grandpa showing us how to inflate our biceps by just blowing on our thumbs. Most of all I remember that my family; my cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brother and sisters, mom and dad, we all laughed. We always laugh.
I am use to being thousands of miles away but the one thing that has always been constant is my family; we always love and hold on. Deneta Genevieve Sullivan is gone but her legacy is everywhere.
I love you grandma.
posted by Banda-aid at 11:43 PM
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