Despair Could Not Have Her
Thus, it can not have me.
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My grandmother always talked about her “ship coming in.” It would happen someday. She was certain. To support this belief, she enrolled in a local college after having 10 children and helping to raise several grandchildren, me and my younger brother included.
She was the oldest student in all her classes, perhaps in the school. Which she told us meant that she had to work twice as hard when she made late-night shuffles to the dining room table carrying an armful of books.
Art history was her college major
We learned who Vincent van Gogh and Leonardo da Vinci were and that their work was far outside the realm of affordability for the average person. So, my grandmother focused on discovering lesser-known artists.
She studied the value of pieces — what she could get today that may appreciate and be worth ten times as much down the line. Then, my grandmother applied that knowledge to becoming a collector of art. Her home was filled with massive paintings in thick frames tucked behind couches and piled on the floor underneath tables.
The paintings all looked rather ordinary to my adolescent eyes. Baby angels, trees, mountains, cloudy skies, and abstract assortments of color were common themes. But my grandmother knew why these were formidable investments. She had it all written down in a notebook. The artist, the year, the meaning, the current value, and any other pertinent information was scribbled between the paper’s blue lines.
It was all mapped out. Her reasoning. Her future, and how the works of gifted painters would make it better. Her ship coming in would make all our futures better. No more low-income housing for her kids and their kids. No more lack or poverty. She’d lift us all to a higher level of comfort.
I’d sit and envision myself in this life where things came easier
The vision seemed far-fetched because we were so far from it. Nothing about my surroundings said the change was imminent or even plausible. But I could dream. I could sit and smile, fantasizing about the day we cashed in our inevitable fortune.
My grandmother kept learning, collecting, and believing for more than a decade. Until she started to have health issues in her 70s and could no longer drive or do much writing and researching. Soon, she was forced to move to my uncle’s house where she could receive needed care.
Confined to a wheelchair and spending much of her time in a bedroom, my grandmother stopped talking about the ship. I don’t know if she lost the will or the belief or if it was just because talking had become such a physical chore, but the paintings didn’t seem to be of much concern anymore.
Then she died. It was sudden, in her sleep. She died before the ship she’d worked with such diligence to materialize could manifest.
All of her collected art remained unsold.
Some paintings were wrapped in bed sheets. Some sat forgotten in the basements and closets of relatives. Yet, my grandmother left this earth richer than I initially thought.
The ability to harness hope, especially coming from where I’m from, is its own miracle. Its own opulence. It is triumph in the face of persistent disaster.
I think of this when the odds don’t appear to be in my favor and the disappointments of this world assure me that even inspired effort is futile. I sit at the empty dock where my grandmother sat, holding the knowledge that she held — it’s despair, not hope that kills you.
I sit there, and I string together enough impossible hope to feel alive.
