The Letter

[Dear Grandma,]

[I know I didn't write you enough while you were alive, so I'm going to give our peripatetic correspondence (a tradition we started when I went away to college) one last try. Now that you're gone, I can write things that I never had the courage to talk to you about while you were alive.]

[It's been a week since Mom, Kate and I watched you slip away. It was one of the most intimate moments I've ever experienced. I think you'd be proud of how we've handled the aftermath. We spent last Saturday emptying your closets and drawers. Some kind of arcane dust in the guest bedroom (or an ingredient in the Mary's Pizza we ordered that day) seems to have given John a bacterial infection that's been a pain to deal with. (I find myself self-censoring, even though if you're actually reading this, you'll already know I wanted to write "a bitch to deal with." It's an odd idea, the omniscient dead...)]

[On Wednesday night, Mom told Kate and me that you'd left us a nice inheritance. It's going to make such a difference in getting thru the rest of law school, and I love you for thinking of us now. Of course I'd rather have you here, but it's surprising what a consolation it is, knowing that, thanks to your frugality borne of the Great Depression, you thought to make our lives a little easier.]

[The Index-Tribune printed verbatim the obituary I wrote. I know you loved it when my column was in the paper my senior year, or when I'd write a letter to the editor, so I was happy they printed it. I'm also glad I got a chance to tell you that my article is going in my school's law journal this year. You always rode me about writing, and in some way, it's finally happening.]

[I wish you could've known about this website. I've been writing online for almost two and a half years, and have been able to dump all the stuff I'm often unable to tell my family and friends here. Writing about not finishing my undergrad degree, about evil drama with ex-roommates, about my HIV status, all the things it would done more harm than good to tell you about - it's a necessary place. I know you wouldn't understand why I'd want a bunch of strangers reading my secrets, but as another online journaller writes, it's easier to imagine an anonymous reader than someone I know; since I'm not Catholic, I don't have recourse to the confessional, and this often fulfills the same purpose. While several close friends do read this, and I've made a few more via the journal itself, I really do think of this as a world apart from the real.]

[Enough about me. One of your charms was you never wanted the attention off you for too long. We're planning a memorial gathering for you two Saturdays hence. So many people you touched, some from your high school days, have called and written to express how happy you made them, and many will make it my parents' house for the gathering. We're not doing anything at Trinity Episcopal the way we did for Grandpa ten years ago; we know you weren't really religious, and your involvement with the church had more to do with the social aspects and some sense of Englishness than anything else. You told me many times that while you weren't sure you believed in God, you definitely believed in reincarnation. If you were right, and we keep encountering the same souls in one incarnation after another, then I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again. Maybe next time I'll be the grandma.]

[I don't have anything else to tell you right now. Oh, wait. Saturday night, we watched a bunch of old home movies your first husband, the grandfather I never met, took in the late 40s and early 50s, as well movies of your second wedding and Mom & Dad's. We laughed at your New Year's party in 1953, held in your rumpus room at the house in Kensington. Everyone's youth, everyone's drunkenness, and the random dancing and kissing - looks like quite a wild crowd, and you looked fabulous in your deep blue, vaguely Chinese-looking sleeveless blouse. I know you wanted to work in fashion after high school, but the Depression and marriage took precedence. You would've been great. You were great.]

[Love,
Bill.]

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