Graphic by Jackie Zhao
i.
You’re doing it all wrong, but you don’t know how to make it right. Dozens of photos of her are across your kitchen table, amidst fake flowers, real flowers, stickers, cardstock paper, and double-sided tape. Nothing seems right, and you were never any good at writing in cursive. Your mom asked you to put together photo boards for the memorial service. She always thought of you as so creative, and she wanted to give you a chance to process things. You wish that this project would give you that joy or peace or connectedness, but it’s only adding stress and worry. Somehow your mind equated the eighty-one year legacy of your grandmother to photo boards that you need to create in less than a week. Of course you can’t meet that expectation; no one is expecting you to do that but you.
Your brother listens to you talk through your ideas in the paper goods aisle at Michaels ten minutes before it closes. You didn’t take any time off work to mourn, so you set up at your kitchen table late at night, trying to keep your eyes open. Eventually you finish, and you cry because it’s still not right, but it’s too late. Your mom tears up because she thinks they’re perfect. Everyone compliments your cursive.
ii.
All of your dark dresses are a little too short or too tight or too casual. You spend your Saturday driving between clothing stores, counting your breaths in and out between stops. Finally you find it. It fits you perfectly, and the skirt flares neatly and nicely just above your knee. You look at yourself in the dressing room mirror. Your skin looks red and blotchy, your hair needs to be washed, and your eyes are puffy. And yet, you smile. You don’t always feel beautiful next to the lovely cousins and aunts in your family, but you feel beautiful now.
And then you feel immediately guilty. Should you buy this dress that makes you look and feel so beautiful? It feels wrong to be happy about any of this. You end up buying it; you ignore the cashier when she compliments it, lie when she asks if it’s for a special occasion. You hang it in the closet in the spare bedroom so you don’t have to look at it any more than necessary. But first, you try it on one more time before cutting off the tags.
iii.
“We often ask about the last time you saw your loved one.”
The service is nice enough. The weather is nice enough, but previous rain makes your shoes sink into the cemetery soil. You don’t cry when you see her in the casket; it’s not like she looks like herself anyway. You don’t cry when you see her best friend crying in the lobby. You don’t cry at all until you have to place a rose on her casket before it’s lowered into the dirt. When you do it, you whisper “I’m sorry,” and you’re not sure why. As you walk away, lifting your heels out of the mud, you realize how many tears have fallen, and you can’t stop them. You lean against your brother’s shoulder, leaving tiny wet spots on the suit jacket he had to buy days ago when he realized his other one didn’t fit anymore.
The last time you saw her was more recent than any of the other grandchildren. You know that’s a blessing and that you should appreciate it, but it almost feels like an added burden. You visited her in the hospital two weeks ago, when everyone thought she would be out in days. You sat across the room from her, and she asked for a box to put her belongings in for her return home. You ended up talking for several hours, but even now you’re not sure what about. You mentioned some swimsuits you ordered online that would need to be returned. You talked about an upcoming job interview. She told you she wasn’t worried, that you always make a good impression. You talked about her first great-grandchild, whom she hadn’t met in person yet. You talked about the family wedding you both were missing, and how dearly she hoped to see all of her other grandchildren get married, including you. You were so confident that she would.
Back at the house, you pick at the food on your plate and listen to your cousins. You laugh when you understand a joke or story, but more often you tune out and try to remember more things you talked about that day.
iv.
Your aunt kindly tells you to take anything that catches your eye, that it will either go home with us or be bought by a stranger. You don’t need to feel guilty about taking something you want, really.
Once your aunts and mom have gone through each room of the house together, politely requesting pieces of jewelry and furniture that they would like to keep, you quietly take your turn in and out of each room. There’s not always a reason for what you take. A pair of gold hoop earrings, a clear bubble umbrella. A book she never finished, a candle with a scent she picked out with your mom, candid photographs. Your stomach turns at the thought of a stranger going through her things, so you take more. A cooler to keep in the trunk of your car for picnics. An orange Nerf gun bullet from the basement, a memory of childhood holidays spent with your cousins.
On the drive home, you focus your eyes only on the road ahead, trying your best to not feel like a thief in a getaway car, ignoring the boxes strewn on the empty seats around you.
v.
You never know what will be difficult and what will be simple. You offer to run to a pharmacy to dispose of old medications, take something off your mom’s checklist. Then you’re watching all of her vitamins and supplements drop into the box one by one – all the medications she read online would help her live longer – and your breath stops in your throat.
She always drank water out of a copper cup. She did daily crossword and sudoku puzzles. She had a gym membership with her best friend. She survived cancer. She lived alone after losing two husbands, she drove herself around, got lunch with friends. None of us expected to lose her so soon, and like this.
vi.
Now you’re standing in the greeting card aisle, and you can’t move your feet. You know you’re lingering, and there are no real wrong choices, but you can’t make up your mind. A coworker lost her son without warning – he was just a few years older than you – and nothing seems right. The colors are too cheerful, the words too condescending. Who are you to share words of comfort when your family is still receiving these letters in the mail? Is it wrong to use a card you’re pretty sure you’ve seen passed over your kitchen table?
You eventually find a card you’re comfortable with, and you add something brief and probably not very helpful at the bottom in your messy script. You walk it to your mailbox and pull up the flag, briefly thanking your next-door neighbors for the dinner they ordered for your family weeks ago. She asks if you or your family need anything. You tell her no.
vii.
And then your mom wishes she had grabbed that polka-dot dress, and she really would like to know how the estate sale is going. You bring a friend, who kindly asks how you would like for her to behave. Should she walk with you? Is it okay if she touches things or buys things? You answer her: you can but you don’t have to, yes, and yes.
You’re stunned by the crowd around the house, and you park several streets away. You first look for the polka-dot dress, but it’s long gone. You’re pleased to see your friend holding a blue plant jar and a pretty green button-down shirt.
Most of the furniture is gone or labeled as sold. The carpeting is covered with plastic tarp, and all of the lights are on. With every visit back to this house, it feels less like her home and more like a house. The strangers don’t make you angry, even while they touch all of her things and haggle over prices. You’re the one that seems out of place.
You buy a blanket that you almost took home weeks ago and leave, your hand lingering on the doorknob as you go. You wonder how much there is left to do, how many more times you’ll come to this house. You’re running out of reasons to go back.