Mary Smith

Greg's grandmother, Mary Smith, died on the recent morning of July 28.  Mary was quick and smart and wiry and classy. She could tell you a story pulling down dates and details from decades past. But ten years ago, Greg's mother, Ginny--Mary's daughter-- died from a horrid and consuming cancer, and when Mary buried her daughter she began to slowly shut off her mind. It was painful to watch; and as painful as it was for us to witness, surely it didn't come close to her pain of burying her own daughter, and on their shared birthday: 

Mary's Song 

September 17^th

Was the day I was born

And for 25 years

This was my day alone

The 25^th year, on September 17^th

I gave birth to my girl, Virginia.

And from this day on

My birthday was shared

Every year, September 17^th

For 53 years

September 17^th

Was a party for my little girl

But on September 17^th of

her 54^th year, my 79^th

I buried my girl 

In the earth

And now September 17^th

Is anniversary I dread

Her death leaves a scar

On my calendar

She dreaded that anniversary so much that she developed dementia and never spoke again. She deteriorated rapidly. But her body wasn't ready to let go. Her spirit hovered between the worlds for years. Then, last year, her husband of 60 years, Ginny's dad, suddenly died at a robust 92. The date, stunningly, chillingly, remarkably, and sensibly, was September 17th. After the burial, Greg, Raynah, and I went to see Mary at the nursing home. When she saw us, recognition flickered in her eyes and she began to sob in giant silent tearless heaves when we mentioned Grandpa. This from a woman who had been expressionless, distant and silent for nearly the entire past decade, who had had a husband and a daughter who marked their births and deaths by the anniversary of her birth.

I hope now her grief has slipped away from her spirit like the cloak of her body. I hope her grief has extinguished like the flame of her mind so that she never has to relive such loss again.