for grandmother.

/

When anyone, especially those of us who mourn her loss, thinks of Shirley Smith,

Daughter,

Sister,

Mother,

Grandmother,

Great-Grandmother,

A rush of adjectives flood one’s brain:

 

She was faithful,

Godly,

stubborn!

nurturing, especially to her grandchildren,

She was gentle,

Kind.

 

A word that might not immediately leap to mind is “fierce.”

But she was. My grandmother was fierce.

Ferocious, even,

in her love for us.

My grandmother loved us, her family, in a way that was SO fierce, she could have conquered Rome, scaled Everest, beat the Seahawks in the Super Bowl. That’s how deeply her love for her family ran, how powerful the strength of her love vibrated.

 

But she didn’t do any of those things.

She gardened,

She sang,

She played the piano,

She prayed.

She welcomed children and grandchildren and a precious great-grandchild.

And through it all,

She loved us.

With a force as strong and steady as gravity,

She loved us. 

And with every passing day, 

She loved us more.

 

And I’ll tell you:

She loved us

No.

Matter.

What.

 

Heaved has gained a radiant angel in Shirley Smith, one who will dance, sing, receive bear hugs from Peter and plan Heavenly treasure hunts for sweet Noel. She’ll swim in the lake with her father and teach Sunday school with MaMaMa, her grandmother. She’ll sing all five verses of every obscure hymn by memory without first having to find her glasses. She’ll beat Saint Peter at Scrabble by a landslide. She’ll recite all 45 minutes of “The White Hills of Dover” while looking out over the White Hills of Dover. She’ll watch all of the years of memories captured in her scrapbooks come to life over and over again.

 

She’ll also be right here,

between the palms of our hands, held in prayer,

in the blood pumping to and from our hearts,

in our voices, every time we say

“God bless you,” and

“Amen.”

 

How lucky for us, that we get Grandmother as our angel.

How lucky for Heaven to have such a spirit in its midst,

How lucky we are to have known and loved her 

and may we all be at peace knowing her open arms will be ready and waiting

when we arrive at the end of our own long, happy lives.

 

Because if she was fierce down here,

just imagine how brightly she shines up there.

january.

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it’s cold here.

it’s one of those days where one has to dig deep into herself to find the warmth she stored there in august for safekeeping. supplies are scarce among my belongingsand my feet are itching to carry me outside, to move quickly and without direction in search of contact. the frosty air bites at my nose and fingertips as i stand on the corner, watching. 

the sun rises and sets. people walk on the highline and make out in movie theaters and share tapas at the tiny place down the street. they sip cappuccinos out of red holiday cups and get flu shots and daydream about each other at work. they bundle up carefully and run to the liquor store to pick up sparkling wine to celebrate nothing at all. 

it’s the lovers that make things spin here. the sidewalk craves their footsteps, sighing as fancy shoes meet pavement. they move carefully but deliberately, lighting up the city, maintaining its energy supply.

the city is cold and bare but it’s warm there, pressed between those bodies. their warmth is contagious, infecting every innocent passerby, planting a tiny seed of heat somewhere deep in their chests that will burst forth when they’re least expecting it, taking the form of a shy smile or a held door. this heat, these moments of compassion spread slowly, lighting up the world as the sun rises and sets, as we continue to turn and turn. 

114 days to go.

/

It’s a different kind of quiet around here now. Quiet is when it’s you and me and we’re both at home with the dog and not noticing as the minutes tick by because everything is perfect. We’re not waiting and we’re not kids anymore but we’re not old yet either and our lives are happening just as they should. 

It’s a different kind of quiet because there’s no wanting these days. There’s having and there’s holding and there’s till death do us part. There’s kissing the bride and sickness and health and you being my beloved and letting me share your last name.

There’s a mishmash of pronouns these days. It’s you and me still but you and me are tucked carefully into the arms of we and us and ours. And what we built is us and ours. And it’s me and you and yours and mine. And it’s everything.

Little specks of dust, we are. Lucky little specks that tossed and turned and went left instead of right until we crashed into each other and wound up intertwined in something that we’ll say yes to every day until we say I do. 

And then we’ll say yes again, 

again and again, 

every day 

until we’re old and gone.