My grandma died today. She was 100 1/2.
Did you meet her? I loved her. She was quite a grandma.
She taught me to always walk on the street side when escorting a woman, to open her door, and to offer my arm for her to hold onto. She was an artist, and I loved her paintings. Everybody loved her paintings. I'm sure she taught me many other things, probably ingrained so deep I'm not even aware of them. I am sure that I am in part her now.
I loved the way she moved her hands, and I don't think anyone else noticed. I don't know how to describe it. By the time she was 100, her fingers were a little too large for the gestures she was unconsciously making, but I could see the elegance of their movements even then. I could see the artistic power in them. I've always been envious of that. I wish I could move my fingers like she could move hers. I think I have a sliver of her talent in my thoughts, but not my fingers, not like hers.
I don't like how she went. She had to give up her house, which was hard for her, her well-being was the source of a lot of unnecessary drama between my father and uncle, and she forgot her family in the end. I wish we had a better way to go, where we could pick our time and celebrate our lives and be surrounded by our family. I wish I could have spoken to her one last time. I don't like all of the unsaid things.
I imagine the negative space of whatever quantum remnants of her consciousness are mingling with grandpa's now. It makes me happy to know that I got to be in the same universe as both of them.