I usually have a strong start to these, but I think I'm saving my "strong" for other things. I'll start here:
I've always been fascinated by history, and maybe I was a historian in another life. Maybe I was one of the very people I'd like to study. I like the stars too, and could see myself as an ancient astrologer, or some distant relative of Galileo, if that isn't too pretentious. I've had dreams where, in another life, I was a farmer. I had plains of grass and a cow that had the very same black spots my little white cat has.
I couldn't say if this is all charged by some desperate belief in something more, or if I've always just been a stickler for nostalgia and antiquity. Either way, it's comforting. And I need comfort.
The last two or three months have been difficult–while I'm managing, I've realized I'm slipping into something familiar. It's a different kind of sadness though, and I've realized that it's really not a choice. I've gaslit myself into thinking that I was intentionally seeking out sorrow and that couldn't be further from the truth. I've got a better-paying job, a better home, more friends, more opportunities, and I couldn't feel less removed.
Alcohol has always allowed my mind to forget but left my body behind. Weed, pills, whatever–always woke me in the morning with a cup of coffee and regret. The last time I was in someone else's bed, too, I felt lonely. Let their fingertips touch my shoulder and shy away, rolling over to the edge of the bed, tugging sheets over me to hide not only my insecurities but vulnerability.
No vice has allowed me a proper escape.
It hasn't been a full 2 months since my grandmother passed. I thought I could bypass the guilt, loneliness, and finality of it all. As it turns out, we aren't infinite, no matter how much we wish we could be. She died surrounded by her family. I wish I could hold her hand one more time, but I knew the last time I wrapped my arms around her that I likely wouldn't again.
This was back in June when she was still partially herself. The last time I remember her as entirely herself was in the middle of August. I went for a walk at the Hollywood Reservoir, and at the end of the loop, my mom FaceTimed me and held the phone up to my grandmother's face. She gave me a near-centurion smile and called me pretty. She looked back at my mom and gleefully said, "She knows how to pose."
I put a letter in her casket and wore the same dress I wore to my grandfather's funeral. It still feels like she's here, but, her house is empty. The wood floors aren't creaking, the cupboard was cleaned out by my uncle, and the stray cats don't come to the back porch anymore. There used to be Coca-Colas in the fridge downstairs, and TV dinners in the freezer along with batteries. On the wall near the TV was a painting of the Teton mountains, which my mother took down to keep for my brother. On bookshelves and in many boxes, there are hundred-year-old books my mom keeps asking if I'd like.
Truth be told, I have no reason to keep barely-bound thesauruses from 1880, but I want something to keep. I have her journal that she allowed me to read. I've hardly looked at it, but I had sat down to read what she wrote when she was also 25. She talked about using quarters to pay for things, going to dances, and meeting my grandfather. It's special to still have the handwriting of someone you love.
While I still haven't really processed her passing, and I'm absolutely riddled with grief, I am completely thankful for what she's given me. A love for books. And writing. And history. Education! Knowledge. Kindness. Humor. A soft spot for sweets and stray cats.
I'm trying to remind myself of these things, and how I have so many opportunities. Even today, less than a week later from the election, I have to remind myself between moments of panic and pain, that women before me have attained a lot more with a lot less. My grandmother, who wasn't allowed to have books, fought feverishly to get her hands on them. So much so, that her daughter and granddaughter could feel their importance and weight.
I'm flip-flopping between my subjects of grief. It's earth-shattering and motivating, sickening and galvanizing.
My grandmother always said people were like crabs in a bucket. Everyone's trying to climb out, and maybe one gets to the top, only to be clawed down by the others. Collective demise. If society were a glass, it would be both half-empty and half-full. Lack of education could surely be the answer but I wholeheartedly think the root is an absence of empathy.
I could turn inwards and disengage. I could shut down entirely, close my eyes, and muddle my hearing to pretend to be safe. Like in my lover's bed before, tug the sheets over myself and decide to shrug off my humanness. But I don't think I can.
My grandparents used to pick up hitchhikers in the back of their truck; bought them lunch and told them which trains to take south. Donated to the Lakota people, and in return, have about two dozen dreamcatchers in a drawer somewhere. Organized unions, fed children that weren't their own, and refused the status quo. Even my alienated father would wrap up homemade burritos in foil to give to folks on Southwest Boulevard.
My friend bought pads in New York and gave a handful to a woman. My brother broke his birthday money into 20s and gave them out to folks with signs in parking lots. My friend teaches English to the children of immigrants. When I was in Chicago, my mom bought donuts and hot cocoa for someone outside a shop.
There's so much love in the world that I refuse to not see it. I'm sick with anxiety and anger and so goddamn sad but I am genetically disposed to be soft and I'm trying to see it as my superpower. I don't know what comes next and I imagine that I, along with many folk, are in for a tough ride. But difficult does not mean impossible.
For someone who loves history, it would be a dishonor to just give up or look away. I genuinely don't know what the answer is, but I do know that much.
-E
Painting: Joan of Arc by Jules Bastien-Lepage