Growing up in a large Italian family meant weekly Sunday dinners with at least twenty people. It meant entirely too much food to feed those twenty people, or even a small army. We had handmade spaghetti, gravy on bread with fresh grated locatelli cheese. We shared stories and laughter, football games in the corn field across the street and insane egg hunts.
When I was a teenager I recall some Sundays when I didn’t want to go. I don’t know, looking back maybe I thought I was too cool, maybe I thought I didn’t get enough downtime from school. It wasn’t always gumdrops and rainbows, but I think being raised with such a close family made me who I am today. 43-year-old me wishes I had realized just how important that time was.
The house we would visit was my grandparents’ home. Now, it sits empty.
Crawling forward
Five years ago my Grandpop died. It was sudden. I wrote about it. I equated the grief to the sea. The ebb and flow. How sometimes you’re floating along, and everything is calm, and other times you’re being held down by a rip current, and you don’t know which way to swim.
Five days ago, my Grandmom died. It was sudden. I’m writing about it now. I’m drowning. Grandmom would not like that. She once told me that I should never stop moving forward. She said I don’t have to run, I don’t even have to walk, that it’s okay to crawl on days when I’m feeling low. So, maybe I should say that I’m crawling.
It does help to know that Grandmom and Grandpop are together again. My Mom says she envisions them in their younger, healthier forms, and she sees them dancing. It helps to hold onto that vision. I do appreciate that they are together again and that does bring me peace.
The numbing cold
It’s winter, and I’m sitting on my sofa next to the sliding glass door, watching the ice melt. The world around me seems to mirror this internal struggle. Outside, icicles cling stubbornly to the branches, their drips a slow, steady rhythm. The sun peeks out occasionally, but it’s not enough to bring the warmth needed for a quick melt.
I want to keep moving, to push through the storm, but the cold has seeped into my bones. So I’ve come to realize that grief is like crawling through a snowstorm – each movement deliberate, each breath a challenge. I’m numb, yet achingly aware.
Words as warmth
Grandmom Willey was a writer. I have a binder of some of her work that I hope to digitize and share with my family. As you know, if you’re a reader of this blog, I, too, love to write. I think sometimes it’s just easier to express great emotion through the written word. My Mom says I have this skill because of my Grandmom. I think I get it from my Mom and Grandmom, though. My Mom might not realize it, but she is also a great writer.
When speaking, I often find myself rambling, thoughts tumbling out in a disorganized manner. But writing forces me to focus, to distill my swirling emotions into something coherent. It’s a process of melting down the frozen mass of grief into manageable streams of thought and feeling.
In writing about my grief, I’m not just processing my loss; I’m also honoring my grandmother’s memory. She taught me that stories have power – the power to heal, to remember, and to connect.
Melting Memories
The ice drips, one moment at a time. Each droplet carries a memory—her laugh, her stories, the way she carefully chose her words when writing. Just as the thaw is not instantaneous, neither is grief. It comes in waves, small revelations, and unexpected moments of clarity and pain.
The world outside remains cold, reluctant to fully embrace warmth. My heart feels similarly – not ready to fully let go, to completely accept her absence. And that’s okay. The ice will melt. Grief will transform. But for now, I watch. I remember. I write.
Below is a poem I wrote just a few hours after learning that she had died.
Grandmom Willey
In the soft light of memory, you stand
A silhouette of strength, hands weathered like ancient maps
Tracing stories across generations, your laughter booming
Though rooms now silent, but never truly empty
In the tapestry of life, a thread is now missing,
A vibrant hue that painted our world with love.
You stood beside us as we grew,
Then watched over our children with tender care,
Your love, a constant, forever true,
Spunk and sass, wrapped in wisdom’s embrace,
Your laughter echoing down the hall through the years,
A beacon of strength, of reason and grace,
Now silence falls, and we’re left with tears.
Your wisdom flowed like a gentle river,
Guiding us through storms and sunny days,
Fierce as mountain winds, yet soft as ever,
A paradox of steel and silk, of reason and pure heart
So we will remember your eyes—sparkling with mischief
The ornery jokes and sneaky slips of candy from the drawer in the dining room.
Your love is stitched and crocheted so intricate, so deeply woven
That even absence cannot unravel your memory
Your grandchildren will tell your stories
Your spirit dancing in wild Italian hand gestures
In the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head.
Immortal in memories we’ll always treasure.
Goodbye is not an ending
But a soft transition
From held hand to held heart
From present to eternal
You are so loved, Grandmom, and so you shall always be.
Love, Christy
01/18/2025
