My grandmother died recently. She lived a good long life and passed away at almost 96 years of age. I was lucky enough to have a grandparent for a very long time.
Recently my mother gave me some old photos that my grandmother had displayed in her house. Though I might be a bit of a nostalgic person, I'd never classify myself as sentimental. I'm not one for keepsakes and when I had opportunities to take some mementos that had belonged to my grandparents, I politely declined. On one hand some old pair of glasses seemed like a poor substitute for the person who wore them. I also felt selfish for even considering such a thing. I'd had a grandparent up until I was thirty seven years old. Growing up, I had friends who never even had grandparents into our teens!?! Here I was a grown man, married with children fortunate enough to have GREAT grandparents. How could you want more than that?
Looking at the photo posted above, though, really struck me the other day. In it are my grandparents standing in front of their house. You can see the beautiful flowers my grandmother was so proud of. You can see the yard that my grandfather toiled over when they'd first moved in, hoeing out rocks, and digging out trees and vines and other bramble so that thick green grass could grow. There is my grandmother in vibrant pink pants. She favored pinks and purples in much of her clothing. They're both smiling, my Pop Pop's arm around her shoulder. It captures so many of my memories of who they were. Of all the old photos I got, this is the one that recalls so much for me. The pictures of them in their youth may be great historical heirlooms, but this one shows the people I knew, in the time I knew them.
But staring at it a few days ago, I realized that it's all gone. The people in the picture are both dead now. The house is gone, torn down by a real estate developer. The flowers are gone. The yard is different now, having been changed for new lots. Everything in that picture is just a memory. In a sense, it's like it never happened. Physically, I can't even prove that it did. If you took the photo away, in a way I actually couldn't.
That's what struck me. I wasn't sad or grieving for the loss or even necessarily reflecting on all the times I spent with the people in that picture and in the place that it captured. It was just strange to realize the nature of this life. We're here. We live. We die. And in the big scheme of things, it's really not that much time. How can it be that we die? How can it be that some people walk this earth and lead such powerful lives, even if they're meaningful to just a few people, like my grandparents were, and then they disappear? Forever. No trace of them left behind. Of course I realize that love goes on and memories remain, but it's just strange that nothing else does. All of life is just a memory. When there's nothing left when it's all over, how can you even prove your worth when you lived?
Don't take this as some suicidal endnote. I'm not getting all existential either in pondering the meaninglessness of life. Sometimes things happen that make us look at the world in ways we had never previously considered. I'm just thinking out loud here.
Recently my mother gave me some old photos that my grandmother had displayed in her house. Though I might be a bit of a nostalgic person, I'd never classify myself as sentimental. I'm not one for keepsakes and when I had opportunities to take some mementos that had belonged to my grandparents, I politely declined. On one hand some old pair of glasses seemed like a poor substitute for the person who wore them. I also felt selfish for even considering such a thing. I'd had a grandparent up until I was thirty seven years old. Growing up, I had friends who never even had grandparents into our teens!?! Here I was a grown man, married with children fortunate enough to have GREAT grandparents. How could you want more than that?
Looking at the photo posted above, though, really struck me the other day. In it are my grandparents standing in front of their house. You can see the beautiful flowers my grandmother was so proud of. You can see the yard that my grandfather toiled over when they'd first moved in, hoeing out rocks, and digging out trees and vines and other bramble so that thick green grass could grow. There is my grandmother in vibrant pink pants. She favored pinks and purples in much of her clothing. They're both smiling, my Pop Pop's arm around her shoulder. It captures so many of my memories of who they were. Of all the old photos I got, this is the one that recalls so much for me. The pictures of them in their youth may be great historical heirlooms, but this one shows the people I knew, in the time I knew them.
But staring at it a few days ago, I realized that it's all gone. The people in the picture are both dead now. The house is gone, torn down by a real estate developer. The flowers are gone. The yard is different now, having been changed for new lots. Everything in that picture is just a memory. In a sense, it's like it never happened. Physically, I can't even prove that it did. If you took the photo away, in a way I actually couldn't.
That's what struck me. I wasn't sad or grieving for the loss or even necessarily reflecting on all the times I spent with the people in that picture and in the place that it captured. It was just strange to realize the nature of this life. We're here. We live. We die. And in the big scheme of things, it's really not that much time. How can it be that we die? How can it be that some people walk this earth and lead such powerful lives, even if they're meaningful to just a few people, like my grandparents were, and then they disappear? Forever. No trace of them left behind. Of course I realize that love goes on and memories remain, but it's just strange that nothing else does. All of life is just a memory. When there's nothing left when it's all over, how can you even prove your worth when you lived?
Don't take this as some suicidal endnote. I'm not getting all existential either in pondering the meaninglessness of life. Sometimes things happen that make us look at the world in ways we had never previously considered. I'm just thinking out loud here.
1 comment:
It's easy to ponder what has been lost when you lost something/someone as amazing as our grandparents. The fact that Grandmom lived to a week shy of her 96th birthday is monumental in itself.
The largest sense of loss for me for our grandparents was during my annual filling out the christmas cards.
It dawned on me I would never receive any more cards from Grandmom nor send her any. This is what causes my state of denial or comprehension that she and Poppop are gone.
They were as close to perfect or my interpretation of the word, human beings could aspire towards.
I miss them greatly.
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