Buried in a Light Pink Casket

When I was a Junior in high school, my best friend Peyton and I worked the midterm election voting polls. I was given one of the more important rolls, handing out the “I voted” stickers in various languages.

November 2018

During our 12 hour shift we befriended our temporary coworker. His name was Eric, he was “74 years young,” and he seemed to have a lot of deep insight on life, as most individuals that age typically do.

He boasted about his wife, his years in San Francisco, asked us about our goals and aspirations, and showed us an app on his phone that distorts your selfies into abnormal faces in which we all got a kick out of.

At the end of our shift, Eric brought us to his car and opened up his trunk.

(Looking back on this series of events, I realize the situation could’ve gone really South, really fast, but it didn’t and now I’m so glad we followed this man we had just met to his car in a dark parking lot at 9pm on a Tuesday in November.)

In his trunk were piles of the same book titled, “A New Wrinkle.” It wasn’t long after that I realized the book was written by our new friend Eric himself in which we figured out when he opened up to the cover page, wrote a message and signed a copy for each of us. It was a very kind gesture and I wish I could tell you what the message says but trying to read Doctor’s handwriting is equivalent to deciphering hieroglyphics. Something about best wishes and something about inner child, but that’s not the point to this story.

It took me awhile to actually start reading it but once I did I couldn’t put it down.

The book is filled with different stories of individuals that have seen better days. Advice ranging from intimacy, memory issues, health, and even death.

When I got to the chapter talking about death, I wanted to skip it. That section just didn’t sound interesting to me and had no relevance to my life since I never had anyone close to me die.

Until my Grandma did in September.

My mom called me crying telling me she had passed in her sleep next to my grandfather whom she loved very much.

When I first got this news, I felt nothing.

But let me explain before you label me as heartless.

My first and only instinct was to comfort my mother over the phone as she was rightfully heartbroken.

After we ended the call, I just sat at my apartment dining table and stared blankly. While my roommates laid unknowingly in their separate bedrooms.

For awhile I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t really feel the need to and wasn’t sure how I would respond to someone’s comfort if I did.

I finally found relevancy to that chapter that I had skipped and went back to read it.

I learned the first stage of reacting to death was typically denial. We know little to nothing about death, making it difficult to fathom by the human brain. I could tell very clearly that I was in this stage.

A piece of advice that was given near the end of the chapter was to write a letter to the deceased loved one and put out anything you still want to say or wish you did.

“Handling painful experiences by journaling,” was something I noticed has helped me tremendously so I decided why not apply that tactic to this situation as well.

Dear Grandma,

My last interaction with you was bittersweet.

I tucked you into your bed and made sure each toe was covered by a piece of the blanket. Surrounding you with your pups as they have grown to be your personal body guards, barking at anything that came even remotely close to you.

You told me, “Grandma loves you very much” and I remember in that moment holding back tears.

We often forget that while we are busy growing up, our grandparents are also growing old and unfortunately, they do not live forever.

I sat there next to your bed as you held my hand and slowly fell asleep, little did I know this would be the last conversation we had together here on Earth.

The next morning you were taken to the hospital where the doctors told us your kidney infection was getting the best of you and you were starting to forget the simple things like what my name is.

Coming to terms with death is easier said than done but four months has passed and I am just now accepting the fact that I will never bring you iced milk in a lipstick stained styrofoam cup ever again.

Or have to hide a package so grandpa wouldn’t see it. Most likely containing some blouse you ordered off an infomercial a couple weeks earlier.

Or hear you yell “HONEY!” when he didn’t do exactly what you asked him to do in less than three seconds.

And although these specific events will not happen again, I still carry many attributes of you everywhere I go.

You taught me to always have pride of where I come from whether that’s West Virginia or the descent of a coal miner.

You showed me how to love every animal as if it’s your dying duty. The deer from the open field, the cats that passerby’s had abandoned, the skunk family from underneath the porch.

You taught me never ever settle for less. Keep your standards high because the one’s that meet those standards will be the one’s worth keeping around.

You taught me to love life. Act like you’re in a romcom, travel as much as possible, and never take a day for granted.

You’re the reason I make jewelry. Scratching pearls with your teeth to see if they’re real or fake. Piecing together different beads in the front room of your Utah home.

The reason I know how to make snow cream. Vanilla, sugar, and untouched snow from the backyard.

The reason my jelly of choice is always strawberry when I eat my morning piece of toast. The garden we tended to and picked from together. Placing a fake rubber snake in it to scare mom or making shortcake for dessert, thinking I deserved to be on Top Chef.

The reason I love watching thunder and lightning storms, counting the seconds in between while we sway on your porch swing.

Whenever we think of grandparents, the adjectives that typically come to mind first are never chaotic and buoyant.

But with you, they are.

You took my brothers and I to Yellowstone for the first time and did nothing but smile when the Buffalo came up to our car window.

You watched us as we lit fireworks in your front yard and then proceeded to accidentally start three fires because the stand tipped over, one spark having landed on the roof of your three story house.

You told me of your love story with grandpa that was straight out of a movie. You being the waitress and him being the regular that always came in for a cup of coffee.

You had so much class, with every shoe type imaginable and every size purse to match.

The mints we made together in the trailer for my mom’s wedding that I would eat until my stomach hurt.

The time you took us kids to West Virginia where we met your side of the family and I ate 5 cobs of the best corn I still swear by.

There you introduced us to fireflies, or better yet, lightning bugs.

You were there to hold me in your arms while mom was pushing out the new baby of the family, stealing my title.

You always had me brush your hair and paint your toes once you lost flexibility and could no longer reach those areas yourself. Grandma without hot pink nail polish is not Grandma.

You withheld the only marriage I looked up to. Together for 52 years, all the love still very evident.

2018

Without you two, I would literally not exist.

You have such a zest for life that I wish to duplicate.

Teaching me to always talk to your next door neighbors because you never know which one will give you a full rack of deer antlers.

I admire you and your strength everyday.

When you got into a head on collision and still lived four more years despite the doctors telling us it’s a miracle you didn’t die at the scene.

Maybe since you were around cats every waking second you adopted their ways of living nine lives and the car crash had only costed you your eighth.

You amaze me.

Your love, your zest, your class.

Thank you for everything, I love you forever.

Your granddaughter, Sarah

I’ve finally accepted my grandmother’s passing.

After my denial stage, after my random cries, and now after my closure letter.

I still have some heavy hearted days. However, I would never trade these everlasting memories for the world.

Moral of the story, when your AP Gov teacher offers you extra credit to work the voting polls, just do it, because you never know what could come out of it.

September 2020