I'm skipping Morning Pages. Blogging instead. Connection better than writing into the abyss, even though I love my abyss.
Grandma died near noon yesterday. Mom died exactly at noon, and I have held that poetry in my mind since. I like that Grandma chose a beautiful day and quit her body at the sun's zenith. I'm comforted that she had asked to have her remains cremated, but am dreading the open casket viewing that precedes it. That tradition is macabre and disturbs me. Why do we make death rites about the flesh that is meaningless now?
I'm comforted that my aunt finds security in the Heaven of Grandma's husband and daughter coming to fetch her soul off to bliss. I'm comforted that my brother's atheism will help him frame this as a body that wore itself out at a commendable age and is happily no longer hurting. I'm happy that I'm able to wander between these ideas and take comfort in fire that transmutes flesh to sand like we see at the seashore.
I'm happy for chemicals and medicine used well, for morphine and Ativan that kept her death a quiet, sleepy dignity. For benzso-whatevers that helped my aunt sleep after the worries wouldn't leave her to stillness.
I'm happy for greif that has sweetness in it. Numbers high in the calendar of a life, long stretches of memories folded into intricate, delicate patterns on old skin. Completion and a blessed absence of the feeling that something was stolen. All her gifts were well used. Her love poured out liberally until her body emptied.