#my grandma and grandpa had open casket wakes that are like very traumatic in my memory so when my other grandma died I chose not to see her

[lunar-years]

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[thrina-aegrimonia]

the day my grandmother died, i was on my way home. i was 4000 miles away in the place i wanted to be my home, had tried to make my home, thought of as my home. but it couldn’t be my home. not legally. it seems england isn’t too keen on giving jobs to those they educate. nearly $70,000 on a master’s degree that usually just gets me laughed at, never mind that i love it and it’s my passion and it’s one of the few things that genuinely makes me happy. $70,000, an MA, and a plane ticket home. i did not want to go, but i had to.

he came with me. we pretended we’d be returning together, but we both knew the deal. i was waiting to hear from the british museum about a job working with roman coins. i knew they wouldn’t give me the job. i knew they wouldn’t even want to interview me. but still, i tried to stay hopeful. we flew out of heathrow and it felt like a very real part of me was being ripped out of my being. i did not want to leave. but i was easier with him next to me. he held me when i wanted to cry. he stroked my hair and whispered to me that we’d be back, together. he’d kiss my forehead and tell me not to worry. he loved me. we’d be back. it wasn’t goodbye.

we landed in america. people everywhere welcoming us to the united states. i had to fight not to burst out into body wracking sobs every time a stranger cheerfully proclaimed “WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!” i did not want to be here. i hadn’t been on american soil for a year and a half. i barely felt american anymore. after so long in london, and then living in his home with his british accent and his mum’s and sister’s, i spoke with a british inflection. i drank british tea. i ate british crumpets. i said british words. i breathed british air. i spent british money. i was british. i was not american. i did not want to be in america. please do not welcome me back. this is not a happy return.

i finally connected to wifi and my mobile exploded with notifications. i read the message from my mother.

“i’m sorry to have to tell you this but grandma died.”

he’d walked away to buy me a sprite and altoids and when i came back i was pale. the last time i had a grandparent die i was not yet alive myself to experience the pain. my mother’s mother died before i was born. four years later my mother named me after her. it has been both a burden and a blessing; a burden because i don’t think i can ever live up to this name, this legacy, but a blessing because i know my grandmother loves me and is proud i have her name.

he asked me what was wrong. i couldn’t speak. i just handed him the phone and stared into nothing. he sighed and said he was sorry. i hung my head. i knew the man across from me was staring at me. i wanted to lash out at him. instead i just cried. i cried, and he held me while i did. when we got on the plane, the woman sitting next to me was a talker. she had her grand baby with her. she asked me if my grandparents were still with us. i had to stop myself saying my grandmother had died only hours ago.

he met my family at my grandmother’s funeral. aunts, uncles, cousins, his introduction was through grief and loss. i should have known then things wouldn’t turn out at all like i’d wanted. he was gracious and courteous and kind. all that british charm worked incredibly in his favour. he won over everyone just by opening his mouth and speaking in that north london accent. it wasn’t hard to like him, until you got to know him that is.

i would cry at random at her wake. i refused to go see her body in the casket. i don’t care how peaceful and lovely she might have looked. i couldn’t bear to see my grandma, so lively and funny and warm be anything but. i could not look at her lifeless shell in a casket. i just couldn’t. i would cry, and he would hold me. he would grip my hand and stroke my knee and put his arm around me. it was an anchor, something to keep me tethered to the land of the living and the home of the brave. i’d give anything to have that reassurance back.

he did the same at her funeral. he would hold me so tight when the waves of grief would flood through me and almost wash me away. i would have let them if he hadn’t been there to keep me afloat. she was not my grandmother by blood. when my mother’s mother died, she was there. they were best friends. she wanted my grandma to marry my grandpa. my grandmother knew he wouldn’t have been able to survive her loss. and she was right. my grandpa didn’t even survive two months without my grandma.

she was not my grandma by blood. she was my grandma by choice. when i didn’t have one to guide me and love me unconditionally, she was there. she told me stories about the woman i was named for, passed down her jewelry to me. when we’d come for visits, she’d have tea parties with me. and the tea was always sunkist pop. i still drink them now when i want to be close to her.

she chose to be my grandma, when she didn’t have to, when she could have shunned me, when my father’s mother was an emotionally abusive and manipulative monster. she’s still around, looming large and ever present, while actual grandmothers rot in the ground. life has a funny way of being a fucking asshole, doesn’t it?

she chose me to be her granddaughter, and when the pastor said as much during the funeral i wept. tears of sorrow, tears of joy, tears of gratitude. she did not have to love me, and still she did with her entire heart. i will forever be grateful to her. she is what true strength and perseverance and love look like. i cried, and he would hold me. he would hold me so tight. i would grab my little sister’s hand and we would cry together.

i miss him. i loved him so completely. i thought he loved me. and maybe he did, i don’t know. maybe he just had a shitty way of showing it. he is the reason i no longer believe in soulmates and still, i miss him. there were times he was the most caring, encouraging, loving, supportive person ever. he was so comfortable and warm. it was like being home when i was with him; i did not want to go.

the day my grandmother died was the day i had to come back to a place i’d fought to leave. it was traumatic and violent and i hate that day. i hate it completely.

a month after she died, the british museum finally told me they’d picked someone else for the job. guess my powers of premonition were right then. what would they want with an american girl who earned a pass with merit on her master’s degree in ancient roman history from king’s college london anyway?

a couple of weeks later my grandpa followed his wives, both whom he loved and cherished and adored, into eternity. that time he wasn’t there to hold me when i wept.