I find myself sitting on a plane. After much fretting and fear, I booked a seat, awoke ridiculously early, went through the newly heightened, tedious airport security procedures and now the odyssey has begun. With the soft red glow of the rising sun streaming in through the window, I am now on my way to Israel.
Days ago, my sister phoned me and to broke the news; our mom had died. Naturally, I was stunned. Sure, she was the ripe old age of 85. But, she had always been such a force of nature, a strong, often blunt woman. Somehow, we didn’t expect it. You never do, I suppose.
I reacted calmly when I first heard the news, asking my sister only cool, pragmatic questions; How’d she die? Who was present? What was next? I didn’t cry. For some reason, I wasn’t distraught. Now that three days have passed, I still haven’t shed a tear. So I’m beginning to wonder: Am I immune to it? When will it hit me? What did she mean to me? When will I feel the impact of my mom’s death?
I realize I am thinking about one of my children, Tessa, who is now herself currently touring Australia with her boyfriend. Fortunately, she’s been keeping a blog of their exploits. Her most recent entry included two photos. The first, an odd shot of a used briefcase that she’d picked up at a vintage store for only two bucks. The second is a photo of her dressed in business attire she found at some local clothing store. There she stands, ready to look for work; posing in a rather chic, polka dot dress with clunky black sunglasses framing her recently platinum blonde locks. That’s when it hit me.
My immediate thought: That would be a great shot to share with my mom. And with that, the tears flow, my heart aches. I realize that I will never be able to share those moments, again. From that moment on, the true grieving began; a remembrance here, an image from the past there. They now come in small, frequent waves.
My grandma died last week. Above is my dad blogging about his trip to Israel to visit his sister and her family and to sit shiva for his mom.
She always lived far away from us, so I didn’t get to see her as much as I would have liked. But I have good memories of her, and the longing to have known her more comes from a deep admiration of the parts I knew through my dad.
She was a cool and sharp woman. I remember a video of her at a picnic with my dad and aunt when they were kids, my grandma wearing a beautiful 60s shiftdress, her brown hair in an updo, and serving sandwiches while playing to my grandpa behind the camera. She played mahjong and poker. She smoked almost her whole life.
I remember the sound of her loudly coloured fingernails tapping on a stone sidetable at her Florida apartment when we visited her as kids and I remember being infatuated and a bit scared by her glamour. I remember her Lauren Bacall in the talkies New York accent, laughing with kind eyes as she told me a joke I only partly understood.
The last time I saw her, on a visit to Halifax maybe 5 years ago, she advised me, without solicitation, to choose a boyfriend who I knew could make me laugh for my whole life. I think she was speaking from experience, and with contentment, about my grandfather who I never met, who my younger brother was named after, and whose humour and kindness I’ve received second and thirdhand through stories.
I love my father’s side of my history. I like picturing the old family together at dinner in their Brooklyn home, several generations of Smiths, talking over each and laughing a lot.
I’m going to try to find some photos of my grandma to show you.
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tessagoldsmith reblogged this from bagelsandbongos and added:
My grandma died last week. Above is my dad blogging about his trip to Israel to visit his sister and her family and to...
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