Irish Grandmothers, SoCal Banshees

I have heard the Bean-Sidhe three times in my life. I don’t necessarily want to hear from her again any time soon; She could afford to give her vocal chords a rest. Take a vacation. Maybe get a tan.

The first time was when I was 20 and still living in my parents’ house. We lived in Rancho Park, a small suburb of West LA. One main boulevard runs through it and we lived on that street in a small Midcentury ranch.

Rancho Park is quiet. That is the one thing you will notice about it- or would have if the light rail hadn’t been approved. The bells from the local Catholic school echo throughout the entirety of the neighborhood during the day. That, and the sound of children at lunch and recess, are the only real bursts you hear from one day to the next. It is always 72 degrees. It is always a little too breezy. Rancho Park is predictable and comfortable. You don’t even hear sirens at night, an odd feat considering its proximity to the 10 freeway.

I remember that I was really into grilled cheese sandwiches at the time. My mom made her own sourdough bread and I would grill it with medium cheddar and a small dollop of sriracha.

It was three in the morning when I began my delicate dance over the hardwood floor to the kitchen- avoiding the loose and squeaky boards. It was foggy outside. It was November.

The air crackled.

Then it hummed.

The tall lamp in the corner flickered off.

And then I heard it. A shrill keening that came from a distance, passed our house and disappeared back into the night, tapering off. I didn’t know why but I felt sad, deeply sad; Not a feeling of unhappiness but a pure lack of any joy, as if it had never existed. It lasted an eternity.

The lights came back on. I had only been there thirty seconds, if that. I went to bed without my sandwich; My appetite had disappeared.

The next week my grandmother was unresponsive following a heart attack.

Nine days after that we lost her.

I understand the keening now. I understand her sadness.