The Summerlands Grandma

Yesterday was my mom's birthday. She would have been 68. In December she will have been gone 11 years. In totality, grief gets easier with time. In fleeting moments, or at times when her wisdom or love is much needed, not so much. I can still miss her as much as I did as I sat in that hospital room with her that last time and watched her take her last breath. Grief ... it's like an old healed wound that's much too prone to reopening. An old cliché, but one that hits it on the head.

So yeah, her birthday. And then there's also this situation going on right now — something that I can't decide if I should write about or not. A situation that could benefit from her living, breathing presence. Her wit, her wisdom, her ability to tell me to calm the hell down and stop freaking out so much. She told me many, many times in my life that I was being too hard on myself, and I suspect she would tell me that now.

Anyway, none of that is either here nor there. The point is that because of these circumstances, I am missing her. Very, very much. And because of her recent birthday, I have been talking to the boys more about her. And then there is this not-so-little fascination that the boys and I have with the song "American Pie" right now. They tell me the line, "This'll be the day that I die" — it saddens them. And the softer, slower melodies at the beginning and end of the song sadden them, too. But their love of the rest is enough to account for repeated plays. I think they also love that I sing my freakin' heart out every time that song is on. They try to sing along.

But yes, the talk of long-gone grandmothers, the theme of death in what is currently their favorite song. Well, it all leads to big things on the minds of small people. Yesterday, as we sang and rode home in the car, Hunter asked me three times: "Mama? Did my grandma die? Does she live in the Summerlands now?"

We call heaven "the Summerlands." It's more evocative, I guess, and more grounded in realistic language for the boys — and so that's what we call it. And I suppose I'll call it that when they're older, too. I like it better than "heaven," though truthfully I don't believe in either. But boys ... they need to believe until they are old enough to make up their minds in other ways.

And believe they do. Tonight, as I watched TV, a freshly bathed Hunter carried one of my old flip cell phones downstairs and handed it to me.

"Here, Mama. Call your mama." (He didn't even say call Grandma ... he said "call your mama.")

"Oh honey, I wish I could."

"You can, Mama. It's a special phone. It can call the Summerlands."

"You are so sweet, Hunter. But I don't think I have that number. I wish I did. I really do, kiddo."

And so, just when I thought I could not miss her more ...

There is no good way to end this post.