Stars

On the 18th, ten years and one day since Papa died, Gramma followed. 

I loved them both very, very much. 

…There isn’t a way to express how much. 

I got to have more time with my grandmother. Anyone who loses someone who formed and shaped their life with love knows there is no such thing as “enough”–the time you had is all you have. The memories are what endure. Memories are how we live on. 

I couldn’t go to the funeral. All I had were my words. 

At request of my family, I will share them with you. 

Ten years ago, we all came together to say goodbye to Papa.

Now, we say goodbye to Gramma.

But it’s different this time.

Ten years ago, my only comfort against impending loss was driving. The night I had my last conversation with Papa, I knew. I threw my stuff in the car and drove east until there was no road left, just a cold beach at four AM, and, oddly, one stranger. This person I’d never met in my life walked over while I stood at the edge of the water crying. He asked if I was okay and offered me a blanket, because it was so cold. That simple kindness was too much and all I could say was “My Papa is dying.” 

This complete stranger put the blanket around me and asked for me to come sit down and talk.

For hours we talked about loss. He told me about how, when his grandmother died, he went off into the desert in Utah and lived as a vagrant. Still did. Lived out of his car, because that was how he remembered what was really important in life. We talked until morning came, and when the sun crested over the watery horizon, this stranger stood with me, gave me a hug, and offered to let me sleep in his car. I told him I’d be all right, that it was only four hours back home, and that I’d be careful.

“When you get lost, go to the ocean,” he told me. “The waves will help you remember.”

If I was there, that is what I would do. I’d go to the ocean, and I’d look at the waves, and I’d think of things that go on forever. Past forever. Things that are eternal, distant and unknowable as the stars in the sky.
That’s where Gramma has gone. It’s where Papa went. Where we will all go. As the living, we get stuck trying to put things back together. That’s what grief is–trying to find the pieces, the broken, serrated edges of those mental tectonic plates. But with Gramma, the grief is different. 

Gramma’s life was a circle completed, a loop stitched back in, a puzzle piece fitting into place, because she has gone home.

And the place she’s gone–that place where things have no beginning, no end–it’s a place we get a glimpse of when we see waves that go on forever, stars charting the course of our small place in the universe. In that place at the edge of eternity, Papa was waiting for her. She isn’t alone. She has gone on to illuminate the dark, one more star watching over us at night.

When you forget–
When you get lost–
Look to the waves.

Everything you’ve ever lost is eventually found again.

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A serious post.

2014 is at a close, and I can barely believe it.

This year has sped by too fast in some places, too slow in others. 2014 was not an easy year for me and my family, but we weathered it, and I have hope 2015 contains fewer losses. It’s never easy to lose people, and this particular loss was a bad blow. Still, I am telling myself what I always tell myself: “we’ll make it.” That’s been my mantra all year, and somehow I’m still here and pretty much everything in my life is intact. In some areas, things are vastly improved. In others, I know exactly how far I have to go.

2014 had some major wins. I found some very awesome critique partners and discovered a writing soul mate I get to see this January. I had one request for a full despite a terrible market, and the rejection shaped a stronger draft. While AMoA got bandied back and forth in the very capable hands of my critique circle, I discovered what was wrong with THE WILD HUNT. I’d hoped to have that particular book finished this year, but I didn’t find the right draft until September. Now it’s tentatively titled IN THE HEART OF THE HOLLOW FOREST, and it’s going all kinds of dark and nasty places I was afraid to go before. Continue reading “A serious post.”