The day PawPaw passed was the longest day of my life. The drive from our house to his felt like one hundred miles instead of ten, and waiting for the funeral home to come take his body felt like hours instead of minutes.
I think it’s because of the weight death brings. Just like if you were to add weights onto your ankles or your back to make a run more difficult, death adds weight to life that makes everything feel harder. You’re putting out as much effort as possible, but you’re going slower than you would without the weight.
But if death and grieving are a weighted vest, then remembering and celebrating life is the moment of unbelievable lightness right after you take the weight off.
It’s not just an absence of weight, but a feeling of lightness that wasn’t there before. It’s a little easier to breathe. Walking isn’t as strenuous as it was before. You might still feel sore, there’s still an ache in your muscles, and maybe there’s a red mark on your shoulder from where the weight of death rubbed and pressed for too long—but the relief is there when you remember, with joy, the life of a loved one.
Even on the day PawPaw went to be with the Lord, we were able to remove that burden of grief for a little while when we told our I Remembers.
“I remember how he used to…”
“Remember that time he…”
“Do y’all remember when he…”
“I remember…”
We told our I Remembers as if they were magical incantations that would keep PawPaw alive. As if telling stories of remembrance would ward off the death that lingered over the house.
And it did. It does.
The room felt warm and alive again that day, and for the first time in hours, we were all a little less sad. There was even laughter. For one moment, sharing our memories felt like PawPaw was right there.
Even now, over ten years later, I’m able to see and feel the impact my maternal grandpa had on my life.
When I cook for loved ones, I feel his presence and can almost hear him say, “Don’t be shy with the salt.”
When a family member or friend needs help, I think of what he would do—and the answer is always that he would give generously and without condition.
When I see a magnolia tree in bloom or pecans on the ground, I think of PawPaw.
Evidence of his influence and love are all around, and it makes him feel not so far away. I remember him, and in remembering, the grief feels less like a heavy weight and more like a dull soreness—proof that he was here.
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