In many senses, the week was one long party. At one point, all of my aunts, my mom, and I went to get pedicures. One by one, we sat down, removed our shoes, and placed our feet into the basins filled with warm water. Entering any establishment with my mother and her sisters is an ordeal, often somewhat embarrassing, and always entertaining. This pedicure was no exception.
I don’t remember much from the pedicure other than that it happened and that my gregarious aunt had accidentally worn a shirt with the tags still attached. Which, of course, the other sisters teased her about ruthlessly. But nobody cared. It was fine. It was acceptable even. That week, anything was acceptable because their mother had died.
A couple days before the pedicure, my mom and I woke up early in the morning to load our bags in the car and drive the thirteen hours to California. The best part of that drive is watching the sun escape from beneath the horizon, gleam through the car windows, and eventually settle high in the sky until later in the day. With the sun, with the moon, there is always movement, always something happening. With everything else feeling so horrible, the sun doing what the sun does kept me from falling apart.
After thirteen hours together, my mom and I arrived at the youngest aunt’s house. We pulled our bags out from the trunk, and I prepared for lots of tears and sadness. I don’t remember much, not from that evening anyways. Yes, my mom cried when she saw her little sister, and yes I wanted to cry but couldn’t. However, there was also just so much joy in the house, gratitude that we could all be together.
The funniest thing I hear at funerals is the statement, “I’m so happy to see you. I’m sorry about the circumstances.” Death can bring people together, make people say these ridiculous things like, “I’m sorry.” Which is ridiculous because it’s a statement that means nothing. Because there’s no reason to apologize, really. It just stems from our human need to do everything we can to fix a situation. If we can’t fix it, we’d better apologize fast, before anyone blames the problem on us.
A day or so after our arrival, my mom’s cousin showed up. This cousin has always had such great energy—a positive realist, I would say. Although we rarely see each other, she immediately gave me a giant hug and asked, “Naomi, how are you doing?” Then, she paused, and softly said, “That’s such a bad question. You just lost your grandmother.” I pulled back to look at her, to smile, and I walked away—straight into the guest bathroom, locking the door to sob.
When we gathered as a family to celebrate Grandma, I don’t think we fully knew what we were losing. Absolutely, we knew that we’d lost her, that she’d died. I guess I just don’t think we knew how much of a uniting force she was. She could make anything work, make anyone get along, and she did over and over. She somehow managed to love us all by finding unique ways to connect with us individually, and that kept us together as a family, knowing that she loved all of us. It’s been eight years since, and I am still finding little pieces of her everywhere I turn: my heart still breaks each time, but I’m grateful she’s not really gone.