Emiko
Losing my final grandparent
January 10, 2010
It’s pretty weird typing out your grandparent’s names. It’s not something I’ve ever had to do with the exception of some family tree project I did in Elementary school. To me you were my Grandma, not one of two, just Grandma since we also had Batch. And today, you passed away.
We were never super close like how tv shows depict grandparents and grandchildren; though I can’t help but wonder if that’s mostly my fault. I always lumped you in with Grandpa as the less-fun, less-happy, less-generous pair of grandparents. Almost like time with you was solely dependent on us living far away from Batch and Papa. What a deeply saddening thing, considering you only lived 20 minutes away for most of my life.
These past few years for you haven’t been great. They weren’t filled with you doing all the things you loved and with those you cared about most— I’m sure it didn’t end anything like you had imagined. By the end of it all you couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, and you slowly saw fewer and fewer of your family at your bedside. You were fed processed food by paid strangers in a home that looked like anything but one. Your last home was less fun, less happy, and less generous; and really all I can do now is hope your new home is better.
It didn’t hit me very hard when Grandpa passed away. I’m not sure if it’s because he seemed like a more-awful-than-not person or if it‘s because he went first — but this time I feel tangible grief. It feels like a jacket that’s a little too heavy. Maybe I feel it because you’ve been all alone these last couple years. Maybe because you always seemed to love us and just didn’t quite know how to express it. Or perhaps it’s because you did know how and I was just too busy to notice.
As of today, I no longer have any living grandparents. That doesn’t sound quite correct; and it doesn’t feel very good. My memories are all that’s left of you and I’m afraid they’ll soon fade too. It still feels like all four of you are just away on a long vacation — like there’ll be some kind of reunion after all of this.
If there was, it’d be on Christmas Eve. Grandpa would’ve fallen asleep to Football way before we even gave thanks. Grandma would be trying to engage with us kids, remarking how much we’ve grown. Batch would be laughing and making french fries, and Papa would probably be walking around. I’m not sure if any of that’d be true but it’s what my mind seems to conjure. Oh, and I’d definitely be chasing Benji under the table around everyone’s legs — inducing a frantic sense of panic in his pitter pattering paws.
And that’s it. Being the youngest has it’s perks but depth of relationship with your Grandparents isn’t included by default. It’s absolutely mind-blowing how you can live an entire life, scars and flaws withstanding, and then just be gone.
I will try my best to remember you. I will try to check my single-story memories of you a the door. I’ll try to remember that behind my shallow perception of who you were, laid a whole entire person. Someone with hobbies, struggles, habits, and real experiences & resilience. Someone who lived through Japanese internment, got to be a mother of four, got to experience meeting 10 grandsons and granddaughters. To think, of the stories you could probably tell.
In life, you had a tough time. And at the core of what I’m feeling right now is a deep hope that you didn’t feel gypped from the life you got to live: a house that wasn’t nice enough, a husband that wasn’t loving enough, and a family that didn’t visit you much. It’s true that I can’t recall dozens of memories of you being joyful but I hope when it was all said and done that you didn’t feel like Benji being stressfully chased between a forest of shins and shoes. I hope you’re at peace now, filled with joy, and experiencing the ultimate manifestation of generosity in the form of His grace.
Still though, you deserved better from me.
