Deposits of a love no longer here
- Lauren Hudson
- 7 minutes ago
- 6 min read
My grandma passed away.
Over the last two weeks, I have been trying to find the courage to write something about it, about her… but I don’t know what I could possibly say to capture who my grandma was. The only thing I can do is write what I’ve been reflecting on, what I’ve felt, what I’ve been thinking about as I learn to live in a world without her.
“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one, you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.”— Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler
When I was in sixth grade, family and friends threw my grandparents a surprise party to celebrate their 50th Anniversary.
Now, given my age, I don’t remember much. I remember it was hosted in someone’s backyard, my grandma’s wedding dress was displayed, we ate burgers, and there were lots of half-strangers who knew my name, but I didn’t know theirs. Like I said… I don’t remember much. But I do remember giving my first public speech.
A week or so before the party, one of my aunts suggested that all thirteen grandkids write a little speech or poem to share with our grandparents. On the day of the party, we stood shoulder to shoulder in a line, facing them, and took turns reading what we’d prepared. When it was my turn, I took the mic from my cousin on the left and began to read my poem. I don’t remember most of it, but I vividly remember the last line:
“I love you more than I love pengu—”
Before I could finish the word “penguins,” I burst into tears, shoved the mic towards my cousin, and collapsed into them, sobbing.
Whenever that memory came up, I used to think it was ridiculous—embarrassing, even. I’m sure I gave all these sweet little reasons for loving my grandparents throughout my speech, yet I broke down at the mention of penguins… it just seemed so silly.
But looking back now, I don’t think it was silly at all.
In sixth grade, I was hyper-fixated on penguins. I had a penguin stuffed animal that I slept with every night. It had big, kind eyes that I could trust, and I could hug it anytime. I was comforted by its reliability and consistency. I had penguin pajamas and penguin bedsheets that I would start and end my day in. My favorite Magic Tree House book was #40: Eve of the Emperor Penguin. When the Woodland Park Zoo sent a donation request in the mail, I secretly sent back a $5 bill with a notecard that read, “I know this isn’t a lot, but I hope it helps the animals.” I was highly invested in the endangerment of penguins and cared deeply about their protection, even though I did nothing to help.
My passion for penguins didn’t have a reason behind it... and that’s why it makes sense for sixth-grade Lauren to include it in her speech. It was driven by pure emotion, by the closest example I had at the time of all-encompassing love.
What I thought about all the time. What I filled my room with. What I was protective over. What I hoped for. What brought me comfort. What my heart was warm for. What I found a friend in. It makes sense that I would compare my grandma to penguins.
Maybe saying, “I love you more than I love penguins,” is silly and doesn’t make sense to some people, but I’m starting to realize how profound that moment truly was for me. A moment when I couldn’t speak. A moment when my body reacted before my mind could. When it reacted to a love I couldn’t describe.
This week has been strange.
I’m fine in the sense that I am still able to function, study, and teach… but every so often, and when I least expect it, something reaches into the depths of my soul and draws out a heavy weight I didn’t know was there. My throat decides to close, my breathing halts, and tears begin to fall silently as I stand motionless, frozen in a world that never stops.
My body is, again, reacting to a love that it can’t describe.
Passions are funny little things. Ask a kid what they’re passionate about, and they might just tell you about their penguin pajamas. Ask me now and I’ll say I’m passionate about making students feel seen and valued. I’ll tell you passions that shape who I am and who I want to become.
While I loved my grandma more than my penguin passion, I’m starting to realize that I can love her and carry her through the passions she has built into me. I’m learning that my grandma didn’t leave us with lack; instead, she gifted us with deposits of herself.
My grandma was my favorite teacher. I can’t separate her from the deep care I have for students. My grandma taught me how to find the North Star shining brightly among its sister stars. I can’t separate her from my wonder of the natural world. My grandma said, “Go,” when I debated whether to move to Vietnam. I can’t separate her from my adventurous spirit. In elementary school, my grandma bought me my first journal. My writing would not exist without her breath. This blog is a product of her deposit.
Deposit can have many meanings, and, depending on how you interpret the word, it can change the meaning within this context. It can mean: (1) To place something in a specified place. My grandma placed something in my heart, my mind, my soul, my dreams, and in other places that I may not be aware of. (2) A layer or body of accumulated matter (e.g., a natural layer of sand, rock, coal, or other material). Over the years of being loved by my grandma, pieces of her naturally accumulated into the deepest layers of my being. (3) To store or entrust with someone for safekeeping. My grandma stored valuable pieces of herself within me for preservation.
I would submit that the deposits of a loved one aren’t just one definition, but all of them and more. It is wildly mysterious, complex, beautiful, and, once again, unable to be captured by the limits of language.
Today, I’m left with a choice in how I remember my grandma. I can look back and hold the memories we have, which is wonderful. But I can also search for the parts of her living within me that I have yet to acknowledge or uncover. I can actively ask myself where she is, and honor her by saying, That’s not me. That’s Grandma in me.
Western ways of thinking often lead us to believe that we can’t have a relationship with our ancestors once they’ve passed. I find hope in rejecting that notion. I’m learning that we can continue a relationship of love and learning even if a loved one is not physically here. How wonderful is it that I get to carry my grandma everywhere I go and get to uncover pieces of her in me for the rest of my life.
“Be the things you loved most about the people who are gone.”—unknown.
One of the things I’ve been grieving most is the thought of my future children never knowing my grandma… but that’s not true. They will know her through my grandma in me. They will know her through my grandma in my family.
I wouldn’t be surprised if pieces of my kids were actually pieces of my grandma, too. How wonderful is it that I’ll get to uncover her again and again and again for generations to come.
That’s not ________, that’s Grandma.
I find it incredibly strange how grief and joy are so fiercely entangled right now. When I remember my grandma, I can’t help but smile at the gift of knowing her while simultaneously acknowledging that I won’t hear her laugh on this Earth again. I have yet to retell wonderful stories without feeling that sadness… yet, I haven’t felt that sadness without somehow unlocking her magical joy within me.
Originally, I didn’t know what direction I wanted to take this post. I didn’t know if I should write about who she was for you to know her, how I still don’t believe she’s gone even after visiting my grandpa, or general thoughts as I reflect in real-time. I write to help me slow down and process… but if I’m being honest, I’m scared to write about who she was. I’m scared that anything I write will be incomplete. And if I can’t encapsulate her, which I can’t, I would fail.
You didn’t learn much about her through this post, which was purposeful. If that was the goal, I wouldn’t even know where to start.
Grandma, as Jennisue said, being your granddaughter was the greatest gift of my life.
love,
your granddaughter
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