One month after I finished writing the first part of this piece I called my
grandfather and wished him a happy Easter. My grandfather was born on Easter Sunday
and so I always think of him even if Easter doesn’t happen to fall on his
birthday and this year it fell eight days short of his birthday. I asked him
how my grandmother was and he told me that she had deteriorated severely and I
already knew that because my parents had told me the same thing the night
before. I had no words to say to him and so I asked him to tell my grandmother
that I loved her and he responded that he would.
At the time, brilliant and billowy white clouds were dancing
underneath the inimitable California sun while I ate and drank and admired a
stunning view over San Diego. My telephone was inside so that I could properly embrace
my daydream but bad news has a certain persistence and grey clouds rolled in as
my Easter respite succumbed to the inevitable. Four missed calls were all that
I needed and it took me a while before I felt that I had the strength to return
them and it really was only a feeling because I broke down before my mother’s
phone even rang once.
Two weeks prior to Easter Sunday I was in possession of a
plane ticket that would bring me home on a trip expressly purposed to share a final
moment with my grandmother and I postponed the trip in favor of a date two days
after that beautiful Easter Sunday. I was behind on work and preparing to move
and I could not have foreseen the coming circumstance and I had all of the
excuses in the world but, ultimately, a decision that seemed so reasonable in
the moment turned out to be a gamble the stakes of which far surpassed my
understanding and the repercussions of which I have not yet had the strength to
even consider.
This isn’t meant to be a shameless plea for sympathy like it
seems but it is a confession and it is an acceptance and a resignation to the
fact that life can be cruel and the hardest person to forgive will always be
yourself. My grandmother was harsh but her forgiveness was infinite and that
always confused me but I thank God for it because I know now that she might be
the first person to acknowledge my mistake but she would
also be the first person to forgive me for it and the last person to ever
hold it against me.
That evening, I walked home and I stopped to admire a row of
palm trees as tall as the clouds. They climbed the sky and the palm branches
spread across the constellations, aglow with the fire of the moon and it
reminded me of my grandmother because everything that day reminded me of my
grandmother because she was all that I could think about.
The stars that night were burning in timeless mystery and they
alone deserved my admiration but I stood enchanted by the branches of a
particularly tall palm and I thought of how great a tragedy it would be if the
stars fell from the sky and I missed them for the palms. My grandmother
understood scale and she had a singular perception of value and her priorities
had scientific precision and she admired palms all of her life but never in the
presence of the stars. What is more, my grandmother never saw value as
something that she transferred to an object but something inherent that she
delighted in about an object.
As my grandmother’s memory came rushing back that evening,
at last I understood that it will be a tragedy when the stars fall from the sky
whether or not I miss them for the palms. It’s a tempting thing to say because it’s
what I want so desperately to hear but I think it’s also the truth because none
of her tragedy has to do with me. Her death will always be a tragedy because
the earth can’t stand to lose people like her and because it exposes how fragile
and fleeting life is and because the most interesting and beautiful things
about life are the people who stand truly inspired by it and she was and now
she’s gone and I missed her and I miss her.
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