well, um.. my mom called this morning. my grandma passed away yesterday. maybe it hasn't quite hit me yet, but i feel more like celebrating her life than mourning her death.
she was (mostly) sober for about a year. it took a near-death experience to get her there, but she did it. and after the hard part was over, she was better and happier.
she lived long enough to meet her second grandchild, samuel dillon. when she got real sick, my aunt was pregnant. we were all afraid she wouldn't make it long enough to see the baby, but she did. she got to love him and hold him, and he got to look up into her eyes and silently shit his diaper.
i don't feel like i didn't get a chance to say goodbye. the last time i was in chicago, i visited her in my uncle's house and played a few games of skip-bo.
all my friends fucking ADORED my grandma. she taught at least nine of them to play skip-bo. she taught every one of my boyfriends (except one) how to play skip-bo. she taught my mother, she taught my aunt, and she taught anyone who took the time to sit down and spend time with her.
she's drunk in most of my memories. not mean or violent or depressed drunk. fascinatingly hilarious drunk. she'd sit and tell stories of her wild sixties days, back when she was a hard drinkin, hard-partying (i have pictures of her dressed up as columbia from rocky horror), feminist, free spirited, single mother (of three) dyke.
one of the last times i saw her, i told her about a recent experience involving ecstacy. then she told me a shrooming experience she'd had, and instructed me to take a long walk through the woods if i ever do shrooms.
(edit: my mother confirmed, she was 64. even younger than i had thought.)
i think she was in her late sixties.. maybe early seventies. i actually never thought to ask how old grandma was.
all of her friends were middle-aged gay men and a few lesbian friends from the gay bar buck's on harlem, her home-away from home for who knows how many years.
i've run out of emotional energy. there are plenty of stories i want to tell right now (like last easter, when she called my friend and i over, and held up an egg. "this is your brain," she said. then she put the egg on the counter and smashed it. "this is your brain on drugs." then she proceeded to laugh for about two minutes straight. my friend and i were holding our stomachs) but i'm a little weary.
that dirty little baby is my mom. you can probably guess who the wild woman with the makeshift grill is.
she was (mostly) sober for about a year. it took a near-death experience to get her there, but she did it. and after the hard part was over, she was better and happier.
she lived long enough to meet her second grandchild, samuel dillon. when she got real sick, my aunt was pregnant. we were all afraid she wouldn't make it long enough to see the baby, but she did. she got to love him and hold him, and he got to look up into her eyes and silently shit his diaper.
i don't feel like i didn't get a chance to say goodbye. the last time i was in chicago, i visited her in my uncle's house and played a few games of skip-bo.
all my friends fucking ADORED my grandma. she taught at least nine of them to play skip-bo. she taught every one of my boyfriends (except one) how to play skip-bo. she taught my mother, she taught my aunt, and she taught anyone who took the time to sit down and spend time with her.
she's drunk in most of my memories. not mean or violent or depressed drunk. fascinatingly hilarious drunk. she'd sit and tell stories of her wild sixties days, back when she was a hard drinkin, hard-partying (i have pictures of her dressed up as columbia from rocky horror), feminist, free spirited, single mother (of three) dyke.
one of the last times i saw her, i told her about a recent experience involving ecstacy. then she told me a shrooming experience she'd had, and instructed me to take a long walk through the woods if i ever do shrooms.
(edit: my mother confirmed, she was 64. even younger than i had thought.)
i think she was in her late sixties.. maybe early seventies. i actually never thought to ask how old grandma was.
all of her friends were middle-aged gay men and a few lesbian friends from the gay bar buck's on harlem, her home-away from home for who knows how many years.
i've run out of emotional energy. there are plenty of stories i want to tell right now (like last easter, when she called my friend and i over, and held up an egg. "this is your brain," she said. then she put the egg on the counter and smashed it. "this is your brain on drugs." then she proceeded to laugh for about two minutes straight. my friend and i were holding our stomachs) but i'm a little weary.
that dirty little baby is my mom. you can probably guess who the wild woman with the makeshift grill is.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
l7rules:
sorry about your grandma. sounds like she was a pretty special lady
unmk:
sorry to hear about your grandmother. But, I understand how you feel when it comes to celebrating instead of mourning. That's how I felt when I was told about my grandfather's passing away a couple years ago. We should swap stories sometime. 