This business of letting go isn’t always easy. Sometimes it takes on its own form, as though the thing which you need to let go is on one end of a string pulling at your chest, a tug of war, a sense of trying to reign in what needs to just … be.
On Thanksgiving, I found myself in my grandmother’s driveway. She died in October. As I studied her house while sitting in my car, hand over heart, I missed her. Should I get out of the car? Stay in? Surely the neighbors will see. But … I just wanted to touch something she had touched. I wanted to run my hands on the white siding of her home, to go inside.
I was at her front door. The screen was ajar; I wished she would open it, her long, soft fingers clutching the bedazzled walker, her voice cracking a bit when she smoothly greeted me with a little laugh and pulling me in a tight grasp, “Well, hello, honey!” My hand rested – no, squeezed – the brass door knob. Her hand was on it not long ago and I wanted to feel her.
I’ve missed a lot of years with her while I lived in different places. She always accepted this, but just before I moved to Myanmar, we hugged longer than usual. We cried more. We knew it could’ve been the last time (it wasn’t, thank goodness). There were clues of this acknowledgement – like when she asked me if I needed more pearls (fakes that she surely bought from television shows) or asked me what I wanted from her home. This is what people say when they accept they will not be here in physical form. When they are accepting they need to let go of their mortality. Piece by piece.
I hated it.
My niece and nephews took photographs with the flash on during Thanksgiving. Sometimes orbs of light appeared in the shots. I listened to them say those orbs belonged to their great-grandma … that her spirit was there. My brother and I eyed each other while the kids talked about grandma. We didn’t need to say it: We both wished desperately she was there, wrapped up in her pink shawl, showing off all her rings, closing her eyes to stick the half-fallen fake eyelash back in place.
I don’t know what the orbs meant other than there was reflected light caused by the flash, but it did feel like she was with us, like in the beautiful side table in my brother’s living room – it used to be hers. I wear now one of her little rings. Somehow it makes me feel she’s closer. Like I don’t have to completely let her go.
The wintery season reminds us to hunker down and be with family. Get in close. Thanksgiving is usually my favorite holiday because of this; my extended family gathers every year on the Oregon coast for a special weekend. Last year I was in Myanmar and felt grateful to be home this time to celebrate; but there is a bite to the holidays right now.
Despite all that has been gained this year, a lot has been lost (or is different) and sometimes that felt like a small pressure on my chest. I had to step outside, take deep breaths, get some air while the rest of the family talked until the wee hours. Next year will be better.
All we can do is decide how to respond to those things we have no control over. Which is most everything. We can bury ourselves in the sorrow or we can acknowledge the pain of endings while also seeing the beauty, the good, and all the lessons the experiences and relationships held. We can dig deep for meaning, then gracefully step aside to let the rest pass through. Holding on doesn’t let you keep it any longer or any closer. It’s the river flowing to the sea. Grasping for the water will wear you out.
I still wish Grandma had been sitting in a chair, nodding off to sleep at Thanksgiving, though. She’s held tight in our memories. When I sing to my daughter or recite poems with her, she’s there. When I hang necklaces on my doorknobs, she’s there. When I add a whimsical touch in my home, she’s there. She’s here.
So that string will pull at me sometimes … I’ll feel it, then bend down and whisper to my heart, “Just go. Go. Go. But … stay, stay, stay.”
This is beautiful.
This was a wonderful post…very touching. I love the dance you do with your words…it is exquisite. June
Thank you, Vanessa! <3
June, thank you for your words. Aww. (sniff)