Gentle Woman
Header by Annie Bueler
On July 2nd, I had just put a pizza in the oven when I called my dad. I can’t remember why I called him, but when he answered, he said, “I guess you’ve heard?”Confusion struck me. The phone went silent, and he told me my grandma had passed away fifteen minutes prior. He hung up the phone to call my other siblings, and I called a friend, but no one answered. The pizza was still in the oven. I dialed another friend while I stared at my wall blankly, “my grandma just passed,” I said. Two tears streamed down my face. I asked her if I could walk to her house, I took the pizza out of the oven, turned it off, and was on my way. When I arrived, I couldn’t feel anything and was angry at myself. I can now comprehend that I was experiencing shock and fear. I feared that if I let myself grieve, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I have never been one to cry alone. To willingly sit in a quiet room and let my mind marinate in sorrow, regret, and insecurities. I arrived at my friend's house, but I didn’t want to talk about the major elephant in the room. I sat across from my friend, and we talked. I can’t recall what about, only that I couldn’t remember if I turned my oven off.
I was scared to let the feelings in. I feared that if I talked about or relived the memories we had shared in my head, I would open a dam unleashing all the emotions I had spent years suppressing. The funeral was scheduled for my birthday. I had never been to a funeral for someone I loved before. I was asked to read at the service and was reluctant at first. I couldn’t anticipate what would happen when I walked in for the service. Would I walk into the room and start bawling, or would I reach the podium, stand in front of my family and friends, and be unable to recite the prayer “Gentle Woman” that perfectly encapsulated her kind-hearted soul?
My head was so full of emotions, and the only way I could get through the service was to turn them off, and dissociate. I entered the funeral home, where people offered condolences and wished me a happy birthday. I entered the chapel with my sisters, parents, and cousins and took my place between my younger and older sisters. Before the minister began to speak, my younger sister started to cry. I took her hand and squeezed, hoping to take away even 1% of her pain. After the service, I brought her to the washroom and held her as she cried, reminiscing on all the memories she and my grandmother shared.
The only way to process her death was to write out everything I had been reluctant to say. I am letting myself long for the nights we would sneak into her building's pool for night swims. I miss sitting on her pool steps and pretending I was a mermaid and the sound of her bangles chiming beneath the water. I miss our nights in Digby, having campfires and playing Scrabble. I miss her homemade mac and cheese and eating vanilla ice cream with frozen smarties. I miss drinking chocolate milk from a sippy cup at the ripe age of fourteen just to relive the nostalgia of being five and living on the same side of the country as her. I miss making Justice wishlists to send to her at Christmas while she was in Florida. I miss her unconditional love.
I returned to Kingston after spending 48 hours on the East Coast for the funeral. My friend planned a surprise party for me and she made a carrot cake. Every year on my birthday, my grandmother would make a carrot cake. I never told my friend of the significance of that cake, but it felt like a sign. A birthday gift from my grandmother. At that moment, for the first time since she passed, I wanted to cry; I felt her with me for the first time since her passing, and I allowed myself to embrace my grief. We experience grief as a result of experiencing love. My grandmother may be gone, but through my memories, she’ll never be forgotten, and I know she will always be with me.
Edited by Isabella Hamilton
