Accidental Ambivalence

My grandmother, who died two-and-a-half years ago, was my favorite person in the entire world. After she passed, I had to keep telling myself that it was just a shell; her body wasn't her. This is the only thing that made me able to go to the funeral and sit there at the cemetary and watch them bury that shell. I was so convincing to myself, that now her grave means next to nothing to me.

When I get older and Memorial Day becomes a holiday that I'm supposed to care about and do something for, I'm going to be a poor example. In fact, I've only visited her grave twice since the day of her funeral. Quite honestly, I don't have a lot of motivation to go back. Being back in Small Town though, where just coming up the driveway to my parents' house forces me to drive past her home. This afternoon, I went into the house. My mother hasn't been able to do a lot to it, and most of the things are in the exact same place they were the last night my grandmother went to bed.

The Reynold's Plastic Wrap on top of the microwave (in violet because colored plastic wrap is fun), her shampoo still rests on the shelf in the shower, the lotion she used every morning sitting in the medicine cabinet. The calendar on the kitchen wall still reads February 2006. This is the way that I visit my late grandmother. This, for me, is far more significant than visiting the place where her body rests, where there is a rock with her name and some dates engraved on it.

There is a full-length mirror at the end of the hall, and when you stand in the center of the living room and face West, you can see your reflection. I used to stand there, right below the ceiling fan, when I was growing up. Dressed in silky nighties pretending to be a princess when I was six; practicing cheers when I was thirteen; making sure that the hem of my prom dress just skimmed the floor when I was eighteen. And as I stood there this weekend in a pink sundress with my keys clutched in my right hand and my sunglasses perched atop my head, I realized something: This is the only place in the world where I see my reflection and feel that I am short and small. Not because I felt small in the house, and not because I spent time there when I was truly little, but because my grandmother was larger than life for me. Because she still is.