my brain is made of glitter

This weekend my boyfriend’s grandmother, Dadi as she’s called in Gujarati, passed away. She was a kind, funny, strong woman who lived next door to us with her daughter, my boyfriends mom. Having lost all my grandparents, Dadi became my grandma the moment I cooked her homemade meatballs on Easter Sunday in 2009. Since then on an almost daily basis I stopped and say one of the only things I know how to say in her language “kem cho” (how are you? ) to which she’d pause from her crocheting to respond “saru che!” (fine). Then she’d reach out her hand and rub my arm and with a big smile she’d ask “cold?” Even in 90 degrees she wanted to make sure I felt warm. Her touch was so soft and gentle, the kind of softness and gentleness only grandmothers posses. My Nonna touched me this way. My mother touches my nieces this way. This was our routine.

It’s a strange thing when a grandparent dies. I think often the instinctual reaction to “my grandmother/father died” is “that’s sad but they were old, at least they lived a long life.” True, living a long life is a huge blessing. But that grandparent is still someone’s mom or dad. When my mother lost her mother, her best friend, in 2007 I tried to console her by reminding her how lucky she was to have her mom till age 94 to which she replied “I know, but that’s my mom. There is no bond like the one you have with your mom.” Loss despite age is never easy. Sure, it’s expected and inevitable at an older age, but it’s never easy.

Whomever you’ve lost, a grandparent, parent, other family member, friend a pet, or even an icon you didn’t know personally but felt connected to (I know some people think it’s silly to grieve over someone you didn’t know but if that person affected your life then it’s valid and important and no one can tell you who you should or shouldn’t mourn) you have seen the beauty that comes with death.

For the past three days as I’ve watched as family and friends have stopped by to visit, I’ve watched something beautiful. Something beautiful that seems to only happen when death inspires it…

The longer than usual hugs exchanged.

The offers of “if you need anything let me know” and messages of “I’m thinking of you.”

The reminder that life is precious and to spend more quality time with those we love (and by quality time I mean those seemingly rare moments when we are directly speaking to and perhaps even face to face with a human and not distracted by a smart phone, computer, TV, or some other shiny flashing machine).

The uncensored purging crying. The kind of cries that come from parts of your body you didn’t know existed. The kind of cries that feel like you just lost 10 pounds of tears and emotion. The kind of cries that only true love can evoke. (Even our dog Mina, Dadi’s good friend, has cried. Animals are so in tune, it’s amazing)

The uncensored laughing. The kind of laughter that makes you cry and nearly explode. Reminiscing about good times. Making jokes to ease the pain and to celebrate the life of a loved one.

The promises to others or oneself of “wow, life is so short, I have to do more to make myself happy!”

The uniting of family, especially family that have been foes (a fact I will never understand. I will never understand how petty things will make siblings stop speaking to each other or cousins curse one another. I’ve sadly had this happen in my own extended family and the families of most of my friends. Sometimes a death will mend a broken family bond, sometimes it will create it. If you’re reading this and you’ve cut off a family member over something stupid, shame on you. Please, resolve it before their funeral).

This compassion and love shared when someone dies is one of the most beautiful things in the world. I wish more often we shared this beauty caused by death even when no one has died: that we’d all hug longer, offer to help each other and think more of each other, cry and feel deeply and shamelessly, laugh and celebrate deeply and shamelessly, do more to make ourselves happy, and be united with our families always and not just in times of need.

That is what I pray for when I talk to those I’ve lost: that we can all share more of life’s beauty with each other while we are living, even if it’s something as simple as a soft and gentle grandmotherly touch.