Death and I have an interesting relationship. The whole “death comes in threes” has been completely blown out of the water over the 18 months. Because of this, I have explored my relationship with death and grief.
My Introduction
Ella Jones, my paternal grandmother, died when I was six. My only memories of her are visits to the nursing home. She was paralyzed on one side of her body. She was unable to speak. I don’t know how tall she was, how her voice sounded, what her scent was, or the warmth of her embrace. There are pictures of her holding me when I was a baby. There are stories that my father retells of their relationship and her as a mother. I’m grateful for the pictures and the father she gave me.
Katie Lee Nelson Moore, my maternal grandmother, died when I was 11. My younger brother and I spent weeks during the summer and many a spring break at her home. We celebrated with my extended family every Christmas at her house. I absolutely adored her. I loved watching her press and roll her hair. She always fussed about the way I ate or the lack of things I did not have a taste for. She was so impressed that I finally liked pinto beans and black-eyed peas. She woke up early every morning playing gospel music on the radio in the kitchen. I remember waking up to the smell of coffee and wondering why I had to wake up just because she was up (I hardly ever got out of bed). The opportunities I had to sleep in her bed were always greeted with the warning to not kick her. I went to sleep with the best intentions. Her house always felt like a warm hug.
My grandfathers passed when I was 12 and 16, I think. I believe I was in the sixth grade when my paternal grandfather, Johnnie Jones, transitioned because I remember walking down the sidewalk at school in my safety patrol belt, telling a friend about missing school for the funeral. My memories of dad’s father include him giving me regular milk to drink around age 5, maybe, and drinking it knowing I shouldn’t because I’m allergic, and I don’t like it like the taste, but convincing myself that possibly he was right and I was wrong about the color and smell. We temporarily lived in his house with a white kitchen, a pink bathroom, and a scary living room that always stayed dark. It remained ominous to me and probably had plastic on the furniture. Playing in the gravel-covered backyard with my younger brother and cousin, who lived nearby during those hot, sticky summer days, is a core memory from summers at his house. He spent his last days in our home. My brother, Isaac, had to give up his room to accommodate my grandfather. I never enjoyed ironing my clothes in the den where he watched wrestling because I didn’t understand his pleasure. My parents would encourage me to talk to him, but I never knew what to say. I think his hearing was diminishing, so the effort it would have taken me to speak up or repeat myself was overwhelming for the painfully shy child I was then. Now, I realize it was a blessing to be in his presence for a short time.
Since entering adulthood, losing cousins, aunts, and uncles has been challenging. I think about their immediate families losing a sibling, child, or parent. They will have to move on without that constant in their lives. I think about how different holidays will be without their presence. I am grateful that their suffering is over. Still, I wish their pain could have ended with them still being here with us. Just for one more conversation, laughter, or hug.
Moving forward
The crazy thing about getting older that no one really seems to talk about is death and how it affects everyone around you other than it happens. Trying to find the words to comfort a friend or loved one after losing a parent is rough. Seeing your retired parents travel weekends in a row back to their hometown for a funeral reminds me of their humanity. Speaking of my parents, I find myself selfishly praying for them to live long enough to witness my growth, success, love, and legacy. It is hard being stuck in a place where some of my closest friends are managing adulthood without their parents. I find myself withholding anecdotes or frustrations from them because their parents are gone.
I really wish I knew a positive approach to death. I try it all the time – we are seeds planted here on earth, and when we die, we are seeds planted into the earth. Sometimes, it works, but lately, keeping that in my heart and mind has been complex. Matthew 6:34 (Amplified) So do not worry or be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will have worries and anxieties of its own. Sufficient for each day is its own trouble is a scripture that grounds me but does not settle me. I have to live for today. My anxieties try to overtake me because today is sufficient. Moving forward, I will try to harness that sufficiency (ease, tranquility, contentment, well-being) of today because even though tomorrow is not promised, it is full of its own everything – time, trouble, sunshine, tears, etc.
Give love. Get love.
Tell your folks that you love them and why.
The Ready Writer 