Look How Beautiful

A memorial.

I should start at the end: my grandmother died about a month ago. I am still trying to process my feelings about it, particularly because I wrote and spoke very publicly about our relationship.

In fact, the morning I was quoted in the NYTimes I got the call from my mother to come home to Virginia, because Granny wasn't doing well. She was in her 90s and had lived a long, full life.

My brain understands that her passing is a natural part of life, and so on one level her transition has not been necessarily shattering. But a petulant spirit has me feeling deeply aggravated that she is not here anymore. I am annoyed. Instead of an overwhelming cluster of emotions, there are a series of infinitesimal aches — because what do you mean she’s gone, she just called me the other day to say she missed me? She didn't get to visit me in my new city, or hold a great-grandbaby. It doesn't make sense that I won't see her digging in her garden next spring. It is absurd. 

Anyway. There have been some good aspects of the funerary process. I saw cousins I ain't lain eyes on in years. Going through Granny's yearbook pictures and seeing her as a high schooler with jet black hair was a treat. We had a white funeral, which is very Queen Sugar but it's a real custom. The last white funeral was for Big Mama, Granny's mom, down in Mississippi. It's soothing to lean into traditions and hear stories about where your family comes from. It's nice to be loved on. 

The past 5 years with my grandmother were a lot of fun. Every video I have of Granny relishing cussing out telephone scammers, every voicemail of her asking me to buy dirt for her rosebushes, every photo of her and my dog sitting in the glow of the refrigerator scoping out snacks, is a precious gift. Whenever I feel down I just scroll through my picture roll and laugh because she was really off the hook. Our time together showed me what long love looks like – it is treasuring the mundane daily joys and letting them accumulate until they spill all over the place. 

Look how beautiful.**

**This is something my grandmother would say all the time about her flowers when they were really showing off. “Come see my roses,” she’d exclaim. “Look how beautiful.”