Today I leaned just exactly how much Nana shared her family with the rest of the universe, through her words.
When Mom first asked me, on the phone, if I wanted to speak at the wake, I burst into tears. Speak? At a wake? Whose wake? What wake? I hadn't yet been to Dallas, and although I knew the reason for the wake, I was removed somehow from the situation. Confirming to speak at the wake was confirmation that I'd never receive another letter in the mail from Nana. And that was something I just couldn't accept at the moment. After a few days, though, I had processed the request, and thought, maybe I could read something. One of the letters, maybe. Maybe one she sent me while I was in Gambia. I realized it was the very least I could do. That she deserved to have every single person in the sanctuary stand up at the alter and honor Nana in their own way.
A couple of nights ago, I sat down with a stack of letters from Gambia, and came across one with her hand made monogram stationary. MF was written at the top, and below read "Remember, you're my angel". Immediately, even before re-reading it, I knew it was the one. The content pretty much painted the quintessential Nana portrait, including "Wheel of Fortune", Mother's Day with my mom and dad, an update about my sister, questions about my life, talk about stamps and postage and bus rides, making me feel like I was the most important person in the whole wide world.
When I arrived at the church this afternoon, the familiar faces were somber and faces frowned. Our hugs were sincere, but I had a secret weapon in my purse. Somehow, her letter protected me from imminent sadness. Because I knew in my heart, she was with me then, just as she is with me now, and always, through her words. And like the arrangement of flowers, a handful of received letters were displayed for viewing. My eyes navigated towards my handwriting, which led to me discover the last letter I had mailed her, dated August 16th, the day before she passed. It was the reply to the birthday card I had received the prior day. I couldn't bring myself to open it.
Instead, I stood up in front of the crowd, honored Nana the way she deserved, and before too long, the service concluded. Afterwards, folks I had never even met came up to me and we spoke as if we were the oldest of friends. Nana had connected us through her written words. She had made local celebrities out of her family members, talking us up, passing on her thoughts and concerns to neighbors and friends. It was an interesting situation, but if that doesn't scream unconditional love, you're listening to the wrong band.
Afterwards, we gathered at my other late grandma's house. As I swayed on Meme's backyard bench swing, listening to the cacophony of cicadas in the old Dallas trees, the new sliver of the moon caught my eye. Just then, a single bird flew passed the crescent, and the day was complete.
When Mom first asked me, on the phone, if I wanted to speak at the wake, I burst into tears. Speak? At a wake? Whose wake? What wake? I hadn't yet been to Dallas, and although I knew the reason for the wake, I was removed somehow from the situation. Confirming to speak at the wake was confirmation that I'd never receive another letter in the mail from Nana. And that was something I just couldn't accept at the moment. After a few days, though, I had processed the request, and thought, maybe I could read something. One of the letters, maybe. Maybe one she sent me while I was in Gambia. I realized it was the very least I could do. That she deserved to have every single person in the sanctuary stand up at the alter and honor Nana in their own way.
A couple of nights ago, I sat down with a stack of letters from Gambia, and came across one with her hand made monogram stationary. MF was written at the top, and below read "Remember, you're my angel". Immediately, even before re-reading it, I knew it was the one. The content pretty much painted the quintessential Nana portrait, including "Wheel of Fortune", Mother's Day with my mom and dad, an update about my sister, questions about my life, talk about stamps and postage and bus rides, making me feel like I was the most important person in the whole wide world.
When I arrived at the church this afternoon, the familiar faces were somber and faces frowned. Our hugs were sincere, but I had a secret weapon in my purse. Somehow, her letter protected me from imminent sadness. Because I knew in my heart, she was with me then, just as she is with me now, and always, through her words. And like the arrangement of flowers, a handful of received letters were displayed for viewing. My eyes navigated towards my handwriting, which led to me discover the last letter I had mailed her, dated August 16th, the day before she passed. It was the reply to the birthday card I had received the prior day. I couldn't bring myself to open it.
Instead, I stood up in front of the crowd, honored Nana the way she deserved, and before too long, the service concluded. Afterwards, folks I had never even met came up to me and we spoke as if we were the oldest of friends. Nana had connected us through her written words. She had made local celebrities out of her family members, talking us up, passing on her thoughts and concerns to neighbors and friends. It was an interesting situation, but if that doesn't scream unconditional love, you're listening to the wrong band.
Afterwards, we gathered at my other late grandma's house. As I swayed on Meme's backyard bench swing, listening to the cacophony of cicadas in the old Dallas trees, the new sliver of the moon caught my eye. Just then, a single bird flew passed the crescent, and the day was complete.
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