Grave Thoughts

Death isn't a popular topic. Dealing with it even less so. It seems that when somebody dies it's expected for loved ones to move on after an acceptable grieving period. But how do people move on? How can loved ones let go the pain and be truly happy with the memories of the person who's gone from their lives forever?

It seems strange to be asking this question seeing as I have lost several members of my family and should know the answer. But the death of my grandmother, four years ago, has brought these thoughts to the forefront. And although I have experience with loss, I don't think I've ever consciously tried to move on; it always just happened.

Take my grandfather for instance. He died when I was two and although I have no "real" memories of him, he's often in my thoughts. His presence has been instilled there by the multitude of stories planted there by my mother, grandmother and various other family members. These tales of his peculiarities, talents and personal experiences keep him alive for me in the best way possible. And although I never really knew him, I feel happy to know that I have his nose, his love of dance and a bit of his preference for doing things "the right way". I never lived with his death only his life, moving on was never an issue.

My great-grandfather, on the other hand, died when I was a teenager. I barely knew him before I left Russia and by the time he came to the States, he was a confused, old man and I was a self-absorbed teen. So when he passed away, I didn't feel deep loss just the sense that someone I knew had died. I was sad but that pain was quickly forgotten as well as any underlying connection I had with him. There were few stories about him at family gatherings and we didn't visit his grave all too often. He left this world and, sad as it is to say, his memory left me as well.

There were other family members who've died but those deaths occurred overseas, back in Russia. And although, I may have loved these people and felt their loss deeply, the distance made for an easy bridge from grief-stricken to happy in the privilege of having known them.

And then my grandmother died. The woman whom I knew and loved in Russia and the States left this world and for a while I was frozen by grief. But time refused to stop and my world and life moved again. I began doing my thing, living my life but something was wrong, because whenever she came up in conversation, which was rare, a hush fell over the room and the mood turned somber. This wasn't the kind of moving on I wanted. I didn't want to forget her like I did my great-grandfather, not for the world! I wanted her memory alive and well just like my grandfathers; to be able to talk about her like we talk about him, as if he just stepped out of the room.

Talking, I realized, was the problem. I couldn't do it, not about her. Whenever I tried, I felt stabs of pain that time, even four years of it, didn't ease. So I tried to remember in more detail how my family dealt with my grandfathers death. And the one things that really stood out for me were the visits to his cemetery.

It was an immense place and I remember hot summer days walking the dirt road for quite a while before we reached his spot. The cemeteries in Russia are not just big expanses of land filled with 3' X 8' plots with headstones, they are filled with small rectangular lots with room enough for a grave, a place to sit, maybe even a tree. Each of these lots being separated by low fences. I clearly remember grandpa's being black wrought iron that we painted or touched up on our visits. We'd pull weeds, plant flowers and do general clean-up. There were many trips to the old fashioned water pump which was located at a main intersection of the dirt roads that made access to the multitude of graves possible. My sandled feet kicking up the yellow dust of the road and the pail banging against my leg, I made my way back and forth doing at least a small part in the upkeep of my grandfather's resting place.

When the work was done we'd gather around his grave to have a picnic. The conversation would flow freely from topic to topic but never too far from him. My grandma would mentioned how the two of them loved to dance and Mom would talk about how particular he was about his tea, mixing several loose leaf varieties to make his own special blend. I learned about how their cat, Pushka, adored him and my Mother was jealous. Pictures were painted for me of how, after his stroke, partially paralyzed, he would agonizingly shave his face so that I, then only a one year old, would not cry when he kissed me. It was as if in the physical labor of painting, weeding, planting and carrying water back and forth the grief left us with our sweat and we were left with the beautiful, funny and often heart-warming memories. And throughout the years, when we would gather for celebrations or simple dinners he was right there with us; the empty place in our hearts that was his dominion was not empty, it was filled with those wonderful thoughts and images.

But, I thought, when my kids and I stand at the foot of my grandmother's grave, surrounded by gravestones and a perfectly manicured landscape with no fences to paint, no weeds to pull and no plants to plant all we can do is feel her loss and ache for something to fill the void. There isn't that same sense of communion that I had when I was carrying that pail of water back and forth or sitting there with my family hearing all my grandfather's stories. And so our grief stays and our tongues remain still.

This is what I believed until a few weeks ago when my son and I were in the kitchen and he voiced his love of pickles and without thinking I piped up "You know, my grandma used to make great pickles herself." My son was surprised and asked "How?" The pain I felt at that moment was a revelation. In that instant I knew that no amount of weeding or painting around my grandmothers resting place would relieve the ache I felt. The problem, you see, was guilt. My grief over her death and my guilt over things I did and didn't do we inexorably tied together and to let go of one I'd need to let go the other. You see, the answer to my sons "How?" was an "I don't know." I had forgotten the recipe she gave me and I felt guilty.

I realize now that all this time her place in my heart hasn't been empty at all, it's been almost entirely consumed by my guilt for not visiting often enough, for not asking her about her history when I had the chance and for forgetting things she told or taught me.

The way to move on it seems is to look inward not outward, I now know it is I who stand in my own way, I who cause my own pain and only I who can forgive myself because grandma has long ago done so, she was that kind of woman. And so I release my guilt and with it my tongue.

My children will know the woman for whom I'm named. This amazing person who, as a child, survived World War II and as a young woman, an abusive marriage to become a single mother as well as a successful photographer. One who raised a strong and independent son and when her boy became my Mother's man moved on to find a good man of her own and become a mother again. For some this would have been quite a full life but not her, for when her son picked up and moved his family beyond the iron curtain, she not only made the process less painful by partially financing it but also set the wheels in motion to do the same and started a second life overseas.

These stories of courage, kindness, perseverance and laughter will not be buried along with their originator because this storyteller will not stay silent any longer.

I love you, Grandma.