A love letter to Grandma

I’ve written a lot of words over the course of my lifetime – especially over the course of the last decade. I’ve written a lot of words that have felt important to me.

But I am finding it hard to imagine that any writing I ever do will feel as meaningful as the opportunity to write the eulogy for my Grandma.

These are big words. Important words. Heart-healing words, following losing her at the end of September.

Also, this blog, I thought, was going to be all about my academic journey. But, I suppose, in the first semester of my doctorate program, I lost my grandmother, and it feels so important to mark that here; to mark that as part of this journey.

This is the eulogy I read at her funeral last week.

Good morning. My name is Kristen. I am Nora and Oskie’s oldest granddaughter, and daughter to Tess. It is a privilege to be up here, with an opportunity to share even just a few words about what my Grandma meant to me. I am grateful to my mom and my uncles for trusting me with this moment. I hope you know how deeply I appreciate it.

For those of you who don’t know me well, I love to write. I have for as long as I can remember. So, about a month ago, a few days after Grandma passed, I started writing to her. Random thoughts. Memories. Things I hoped she knew. And I knew that if my family thought it was appropriate, I would want to share those thoughts with all of you, today.

When I began writing a few weeks ago, the words that flowed were in letter form. I was writing to Grandma – in my notebooks, on my computer, in my head, and each morning as I lit a candle in her honor. Today, I suppose, I could have shifted the language, and just told you all how I feel about her. But that just doesn’t feel quite right. So, instead, I’ll share some short letters with you. Some brief thoughts on this woman whose life really transcends language for me. But, I’ll do my best. 

It starts with “Dear Grandma.”

Dear Grandma,

It is nearly 3 am as I write this, which somehow feels appropriate. You were always a Night Owl, catching up on correspondence into the wee hours of the morning. Perhaps I am just meant to meet you here in this quiet that you loved to occupy.

Earlier this evening, I found some emails from the beginning of college. Ten years ago, some of them. It was the first time, this week, just days after we lost you, that I could hear your voice with clarity. It took my breath away. And I could not help but to weep. We, of course, cannot know how you experienced the last few years of your life. How the dementia felt from the inside. But I think we are all deeply aware of the ways it felt from the outside. And one of the greatest tragedies for me is that I lost your voice in my head.

So, tonight, what a gift to find those emails, those small moments in time, your voice. It was as if you came flooding back to me. And I was overwhelmed by the gift of it.

Dear Grandma,

One of the funniest stories, to my memory, of our history together was at this church. Right over there, in fact. I was probably around nine. During Mass, I had taken to hanging out with Uncle Dennis and the choir. Being close to the music always gave an incredible amount of life to the experience of church for me. After this particular Mass, you joined me as everyone packed up. And one of the members of the choir took a double take when they saw us together: As if, Wait, but how? In other words, how, Nora, were you related to this small Black child?

I imagine we got looks like that often throughout the years: because, even with race aside, you were always the most elegant, the most put together. There’s a reason that the miracle of your perfectly shaped hair makes it into every tribute or speech about you. Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say I’m more inclined toward comfort. I roll out of bed in the morning and sometimes that’s just my hair for the day. And I’m not sure I’ll ever graduate beyond wearing sweats in public. None of that ever mattered though. Because I was yours, and you were mine.

Dear Grandma,

I’ve spent the last month or so trying to understand how you and I came to be. Surely, another life was possible: one in which I did not feel deeply and spiritually connected to you. But I did. And I do. And I’m wondering how you made that happen. How you became the person that we all orbited around.

And I always come back to the home that you built, with Grandpa. When I think of your home, of “going to Grandma’s house,” I remember that, as a kid, and even through high school, spending the night at your house was even more fun than spending time with my friends. I looked forward to the sleepovers that felt like a hotel stay at a five star resort. We’d spend an afternoon at the mall or in your breakfast nook playing cards, and then you’d take us out to dinner. And we’d feel like the fanciest people in town at Claim Jumper ordering appetizers, dinner, and dessert. Visiting with you felt luxurious.

And sometimes we’d just stay home. And the quiet warmth of your living room was everything that a kid could want in the world, because you were there. Watching a movie with us, playing cards, enjoying the screeching sounds of pre-pubescence as we played with your karaoke machine for hours. You were never one to give us some activity to keep us busy, and to leave the room. 

You were always right in the middle of it. Making memories with us. Letting us know how deeply you loved being our Grandma.

We’d sleep well that night knowing the magic that the next morning would bring. A bit after sunrise, you and Grandpa would wake up to make us breakfast. Eggs with cheese. Vienna sausage. Chocolate chip pancakes. And, of course, some delicious fruit from Costco. It felt like a buffet. But it was, seemingly, the only way you knew how to be. Feeding us. Caring for us. Nurturing us into the people we are today. I am who I am because of the ways that you loved me.

Dear Grandma,

I am going to miss laughing with you. I don’t think I will ever forget the time I walked up to you at your house and said: May uhog ang mukha mo. Translation: loosely, you have snot on your face. I had begged my mom to teach me that phrase, just so that I could tease you. And you responded perfectly. Playfully. Vibrantly. You laughed and swatted at my arm. Your signature move when you found something truly funny. It is one of my favorite memories of laughing with you. Over the years, this continued to be the one full phrase in Tagalog that I knew – and I’d break it out from time to time, just to see you laugh.

I found that your humor was not all lost though, even in these last few years. You would often have this look on your face like you were ready to make a joke, tease someone, lighten the room. Your wit, sarcasm, and laughter were some of the best parts of the person we all knew. You were sincere about other people, about life, about God and your faith, but it never caused you to take yourself too seriously. There was always time to crack a joke. To laugh deeply. To swat the arm of the person next to you because you just couldn’t hold the joy in.

Dear Grandma,

I don’t quite know how to talk about you and Grandpa. I don’t know if there are words that can speak to how nourishing it has been to have your love, your marriage, your friendship with each other to count on. When everything else fell away, there was always Oskie and Nora.

Ten years ago in June, I wrote you an email wishing you a happy anniversary. And you wrote back: “Thank you so much. Can’t believe I have been with your Grandpa for 52 years!!He is so lucky for having me…ha, ha, ha. I’m just kidding. I know I’m the lucky one.”

What I know to be true, after decades spent witnessing your love, is that we are all the lucky ones. Better for knowing your love story. And for the opportunity to be a part of it.

We will take care of your Oskie, now, Grandma. You taught us how.

Dear Grandma,

I wanted to say, finally, something like a promise. A promise to you. A vow to you. That we will live out the things that you have taught us. That we will leave the world better than we found it, as you have. That we will not forget you, and everything you have given us. Already, I believe your children bring parts of you into the world each day. I’ve experienced it. I know it:

In Uncle Dennis, I experience your sincerity. About life. And God. And the world. When I speak to him, like whenever I would speak to you, I know that he is listening.

In Uncle Ricky, I am met with your humor. Your lightness. Your vibrancy. The joy of laughter and a bright smile when it fills the room.

In Uncle Joel, for years I have gotten to experience your tenderness. In him, your deep care, kindness, and patience for other people.

In my mom, I see you most vibrantly. You might call me biased. She is my mom, after all. But it’s the experience of witnessing another person and wondering how it is possible for one being to embody so much good. So much generosity. So much warmth. You are in her laughter and the signature arm swat – the way she extends out to meet the person bringing her so much joy. You are in her ability to just get things done, to be relied upon: whether it’s finishing a report for work that has a ridiculous deadline, or planning a party of several hundred family members. If something needs to be done, Tess will do it. But mostly, it is in the way that she loves me and Megan. Wholeheartedly. Tenderly. And always.

I am so grateful for this family you have made, Grandma. And that I get to call them my own.

Dear Grandma,

I will close here:

I have been thinking that when you grow up in this world, you are bombarded by the idea that you need to change it. All of it. In big and awe-inspiring ways. Or at least I have felt that way from time to time. What I learned from you, Grandma, was something much simpler: that to be warm, and kind, and present, and deeply committed to your family is equally big and awe-inspiring work. 

I was told that I must go out and make a difference. And I’d return to you, overwhelmed by the prospect of failing in this great big world, and you’d show me how to make a difference in your own small corner of it. You made a difference. You changed my life. Through every encounter. Every smile. Every ounce of laughter.

When Lola, your mother, died, I remember that everyone kept talking about how she had 88 descendants at that time. It is an astounding and mind boggling number. 88 of us! It’s more than a football team!

You, on the other hand, can claim closer to a dozen: Tess, Joel, Ricky, Dennis, Jered, Kristen, Megan, David, Casey, Lauren, Ryan, and Sean. And, of course, Terrence and Teri. Cindy and Manny. Christina, Paulo, and Sin-Yee. We are not 88 deep, but boy what a team you have made in your small corner of the world.

And I can’t think of a better way to honor you than to share this final moment with them:

—

[Kristen] When Great Trees Fall by Maya Angelou

[Jered] When great trees fall,

rocks on distant hills shudder,

lions hunker down

in tall grasses,

and even elephants

lumber after safety.

[Casey] When great trees fall

in forests,

small things recoil into silence,

their senses

eroded beyond fear.

[Ryan] When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

[Sean] We breathe, briefly.

Our eyes, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

[Lauren] Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words

unsaid,

promised walks

never taken.

[David] Great souls die and

our reality, bound to

them, takes leave of us.

Our souls,

dependent upon their

nurture,

now shrink, wizened.

[Megan] Our minds, formed

and informed by their

radiance, fall away.

We are not so much maddened

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of

dark, cold

caves.

[Kristen] And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

—

We love you, Grandma.