29/03/2024
It was my birthday on Wednesday!
I always find it strange that we "turn" something, but in reality, it is the celebration of the completion of that year. When you turn 1, you've completed your first year. When you turn 49, you're starting your 50th.
My birthday always elicits a mix of emotions. I don't care about getting older, I've never been daunted by a number, but the grief that lingers over this time of year for me can be heavy.
I adored my paternal grandfather. He was goofy, his dentures fell out when you hugged him too hard, and he made the best molasses cookies I've ever tasted in my life. I used to hang out at his house a lot because it was near the rec center where I had basketball practice. I think a part of him loved having an artist and chronic doodler around. I think it reminded him of my Nana, who had passed but who could've turned anything into a masterpiece. So, he'd save the comic sections of the newspapers for me, and when I arrived, I'd dutifully redraw whatever he had saved. Until the to***co pipe caught up and he was on borrowed time.
"Will you be there for my birthday?"
"Of course."
Because what do you tell an 11 year old?
When he was admitted to hospice, I was too panicked to visit him. He'd promised, you see, and if I visited him, he'd take it back. I understood that he had no say in the matter, but I couldn't accept it. In the end, he just needed six more days. My birthday that year was a quiet one.
And then, at 24, it was my mom's turn to leave early.
I always take the winter off from anything that doesn't need immediate attention, and while it's a rest for my creativity, it's also a rest for my soul. I feel heavy, often, whether it's in February when my mom left, or March when Grampy did.
Every now and then I miss her so much, the grief washes back over me in a wave. It's in something as simple as a thought--oh, that was so funny, I should call Mom. How does that still pop into my mind? Hasn't it been long enough?
I'm lucky though--I see her in my dreams, sometimes. Never when I expect it. But in February...what I would've given for a hug. And that night, I had a dream--not of my mom, but of my grandfather. He scooped me up and I was suddenly eleven, snuggled into his side on the crusty old couch in the house that smelled like to***co.
"It's not fair," I said.
"I know," that crackled voice answered.
And he held me as I cried.
I like to imagine him putting one his slender hands on my mom's shoulders. "I've got this one." And stepping down for the granddaughter who was too afraid to see him one last time. And suddenly, I didn't feel quite so alone anymore.
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