At 5:45 in the afternoon, as I was making bunny ears with Connor’s shoelaces to get her out the door in time for dance class, my beautiful, spunky, red-haired granny took her last breath and left this earth.
It made me think of one of the biggest lessons I learned about grief when Tabby died all those years ago; it’s so very odd — and frankly quite cruel — that life demands you buckle up and keep going, even when massive seismic shifts happen and you’re hurting so very much.
I’d like to think that granny would’ve liked that Connor was on her way to the dance studio to do something active, since my granny, up until the last few years, was always out and about.
When she was younger, she loved walking and especially loved riding her bike, and when I was really small, sometimes she’d pop me into her bike basket and take me for a ride around the neighborhood. I remember being so little and cruising around the block with her and laughing so hard, the wind tousling my hair. I thought it was the funniest thing in the whole world.
Most of my memories of her are from when I was very young, and now they’re faded into snapshots, but in every one, I can always see her smiling at me. I can hear her voice telling me how much she loves me.
With her passing, now there is one less person on this earth who knew me as a child. One less person who loves me.
I am no longer a granddaughter.
As I sit in my house and look out my window at the blue sky and clouds and the bright green leaves on the oak tree rustling outside, I’m reminded once more what a joy it is to be young, alive and to have my autonomy. To be able to wake up in a place that’s all my own. To be so very loved by my daughter and my husband.
Note to self — there’s absolutely no time or room in life for nonsense. Run towards those people who love you, full speed, and hold tight.
Your friendly neighborhood beauty addict,
Karen
