Heres to my memento mori, my chance to remember death. You see I don’t think we have a problem remembering life. In fact, I would say the celebration of new life is so much more palatable than the remembrance of death. And yet both are held in one hand, first and last breath. To behave as such isn’t just unwise, it actually steals from us our very reality. The reality is, life is so very precious and death is not to be feared.
Teach me to number my days.
I never met my maternal great grandmother
And yet I know so much about her.
Her elegant ways, her grand tablescapes, the way she included those that society had frowned upon.
I know of her stoic strength and her natural grace.
A doctors wife who’s husband could be found delivering baby’s in to the wee hours.
And in the end, I know her daughter was with her.
She played music and sang songs and told her lovingly it was ok to leave.
That what lay in front of her is so much grander than what is behind her.
Albeit hard to understand, for what a beautiful life.
And so I put pen to page so that the next generation knows about that stoic woman’s daughter.
She was witty and sharp.
Her words could cut daggers or they could be a balm.
She made the best white cookies you’ve ever eaten.
Christmas Eve meant brandy ice in beautiful glasses.
Her son was the light of her life and her daughter her greatest joy.
She loved her grandchildren.
I use to revel in her received Christmas cards for never was truer evidence of a woman that knew how to be a friend.
Her taste was whimsy and eclectic.
She collected pigs.
Her husband often sang to her.
She loved a dirty joke.
She believed life was a series of choices made and happiness was one of those choices.
And in the end, I know her daughter was with her.
She played music and sang songs and told her lovingly it was ok to leave
That what lay in front of her is so much grander than what is behind her.
Albeit hard to understand, for what a beautiful life.
Four Girls Later 