Yesterday was my Grandma and Grandpa’s 64th wedding anniversary. We went out into the San Juans and scattered her ashes where we’d scattered Grandpa’s fourteen months earlier. The three pictures at the top are from June 2013, the rest are from yesterday, at the same island just beyond Deception Pass near where my grandparents used to love to camp.
It was quiet on the boat, more quiet than it was for my grandfather, because I think we’re all still at a loss for what to say. My grandmother was amazing and was such an influence on me and so many people in our family and outside the family. And she should still be here. For at least another decade. Her tether shouldn’t have been severed, and the cut still hurts those who felt so tied to her. Alzheimer’s makes rationalizing “it was one’s time” or “at least she had a long, full life” almost impossible.
The pain, however, never came close to overshadowing why we’d gathered together. What was palpable on the boat was fierce gratitude for who she was, what she gave to every generation: those around her, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She was classy, strong, gutsy, intelligent, well-read and beautiful. Her stories, her hospitality, her passions are embedded in our DNA. We cast roses after her ashes and watched them carried off by the current toward the island, and said one final goodbye as a family. It wasn’t for us, this goodbye, but a ritual needed whether she was watching or not, to express our thanks, our love for each other, and to let her know we’ll remember her. That’s been the struggle this year: even as I still wrestle with the cruelty of her death, it’s the celebration of her life that we all hope will heal, and even if it won’t, it’s at least the celebration and respect she deserves.
My aunt found a letter Grandma left to be read at her scattering. In it, she told us not to cry when remembering her, but to think of her with laughter.
I hope she doesn’t mind too much if I do both for a while longer.
