It has been seven years since we lost her.
We say that..."lost"...like we think the person has gone missing, and we can search, and perhaps find them.
My grandmother passed away. Painfully, unfairly, much sooner than she should have. I was there. I saw it, and have since felt the hole left by her absence.
In spite of that, I haven't stopped searching for her. When I walk into church (much more rarely these days, I admit), my eyes scan the space for her. At birthday parties, the back of my memory listens for her laugh, or her upbraiding comments she never thought anyone would blame her for. In doughnuts served after dinner, I hear her say, "they're fat-free." In a dozen tomatoes, "tomay-tas," I wonder if I could get them for a few less dollars. When I see an ice cream stand, I say to myself, "Shall we get a custard? A Dilly bar?" Fucking Dilly bars. When I yell at my mischievous, pain-in-the-ass dog, I swear her voice comes straight out of me. But in all the searching, all I find are memories and her absence.
When things are really, really bad, as they sometimes are, my whole self aches to feel the hug that only she could give. She was a bodybuilder for God's sake. How many people's grandmas lifted weights? Ran marathons, did squats, pumped iron? It didn't save her from cancer, but it made her the best goddamn hugger who ever fucking lived. And I miss those hugs. And everything in me searches for them on the bad days.
Here's the way it has worked out for my family: We live on. Not just because it is the human thing to do, but because it's who we are. We are a collection of individuals who seek the joy and the adventure and fun that every day brings. I bet my sister or my mom might not see themselves this way, but it's still true. We live our lives to the brim, and are discontent to do otherwise. We get angry, we laugh hard, we cry. We blame, we fight, we share. We laugh! Did I mention how we laugh, 'til our stomachs hurt and we're wheezing like idiots? Our days are full of special wonderful moments, most of which overlap like a great big tapestry of crazy and good.
But then suddenly, after some indiscriminate amount of time, we find ourselves searching for Grandma again. It's not always conscious, and it'll be an odd moment. We realize that she isn't here, and more, that she's been absent for so long. There are a few blinks, a few, "What would she say to us now?" or "Remember what she said then?" and then a realization that we are something else now. We have grown into a different world and we are a different group that has learned to adjust. There is no more Truscott Terrace. We haven't had her meatballs since Christmas 2014. No more, "How much were those tomay-tas, San?" "How much did we pay for gas?"
About a year ago, I couldn't sleep. It was the middle of the night. I was stressed about my job, Covid, and, oh, probably everything. I wasn't looking for anyone, I just felt lost and alone. And then something happened. I wasn't even searching, but I swear to you, as I began to cry in the dark, loneliness of night, invisible arms came around me and gave me the best fucking hug I'd had in years.
In all the "living on" we do, I guess she's not lost after all. She's still here. Just different. I can't say, "She didn't get to know Max," or the twins, or Donald Trump as president. I can't say she never got to see the world in Covid, or me with grey hair. Because I'm sure she does see it, even if I don't always see her.
I don't know everything, or how it works for other people. But I'll tell you one thing.
I sure could use one of those fucking great hugs.
