The Stories She Gave Me: On books and the death of my grandmother

I had a complicated relationship with my grandmother. We lived across the country from one another. I grew up mostly without her. My mother loved her mother, though, and that was always alive and clear to me. I loved my grandmother based off my mother's love. When she moved into my natal family home for the last of her life, I was excited to get to know her better.

We shared a love of reading that spanned generations. It was a good thing, too, because my grandmother rarely left her room. She considered herself "in the way." The truth was she suffered chronic pain and debilitating low self-esteem. But she was full of love for us, her family. Her door was almost always open. And whenever I had the opportunity, I would talk books with her.

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When I learned she liked Sue Monk Kidd, I gifted her The Secret Life of Bees and The Mermaid Chair. She asked me some months later whether I had enjoyed them. I hadn't read them. This was unusual because I had been reading her favorites and suggestions since I was a child. On my bookshelf now is the complete Anne of Green Gables series, a gift from her (through my mother) one Christmas.

Grammie promptly gave me her copy of The Mermaid Chair. It has been moving from bookshelf to bookshelf unread for several years. Grammie is gone now. I missed her today and found myself staring at my books. The title I'd gifted her stood out. So I picked it up. I opened it. I began to read.

There is something about lyrical prose that soothes the soul. I can tell I will love this story. I feel ready to read it now. I need this connection to a woman who has moved on.

I believe that our connections to our loved ones do not die when they do. We have a choice: we can keep them alive by pursuing what was shared. By celebrating even though it often hurts. Or we can let them wither by focusing only on loss. Loss is tragedy, but it much more than sadness.

Today, I am remembering how soft and warm my grandmother was to hug. I am allowing myself to cry. I feel I am connected to her through much more than just matrilineage. Her intelligence and avid readership informed who I have become beyond anything either of us could have anticipated. Because, as with me, reading was the flip side of writing for her. She was a brilliantly creative soul whose stories were tender and ripe with their own magic.

I am grateful to have known her.

The Stories She Gave Me: On books and the death of my grandmother

What connects you to those who have moved on from this life?

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