My grandmother died. She was a 102, and therefore, I suppose, this was not a surprise, but honestly, by age 102, you get to a point where you’re truly not quite sure if This Time will be The Time, because every other Time wasn’t. There starts to be a sense that things may stay the same, perpetually.
It doesn’t work like that, of course. And so, the end of an era.
I got the sense that at times my grandmother could be a difficult person. (I imagine her six children could provide more depth to that statement, in a much more informed way, and I’m sure the stories they could tell would fill the internet – and I’m happy to let them do so.) But as a grandmother what I can say about her is: she seemed to enjoy having us around.
That feels simple, but it’s not; kids can tell innately, I think, when adults don’t really want them there, and I never sensed that from her. For all her very formal and unyielding ways, she was glad to be in our company, and I think about how as a child I had a secure sense that I was welcome, and I love that she lived long enough that her grandchildren’s children learned to know that, too.
The house my mom grew up in – the house my grandmother lived in until she didn’t – borders the playground of the local high school. My mom tells me that once a friend remarked “Oh, it must be so annoying, hearing all those kids outside playing and messing around” and my grandmother replied: ” No — children playing is the best sound in the world.”
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