I got my first tattoo on my 21st birthday. It was in honor of you; Chris designed it. It’s a beautiful design, tributing your many artistic talents. Your name is woven into it, “Mae.” A handful of years ago, we were talking about you, and Mom mentioned that you always hated being called “Mae.” I gasped and exclaimed, “What?!? You let me get it permanently on my body! You even sat next to me while I had it done!”
We had a good laugh. I know you would’ve, too.
I always loved your name. Elegant, simple, pretty. I have often wondered what my nickname of “Mary Jane” would have been had Mom kept up the tradition. I would have been honored to be Mary Jane IV, but Dana is nice (and I love that Chris picked it).
I can’t imagine you would particularly approve of me having tattoos; so, I do apologize for not only having one (a lot) but also for “Mae” being incorporated. I am also very sorry to tell you, Grandma, but it is a tramp stamp. I had my reasons at the time. Solid, sound, 21-year-old reasons.
I got another tattoo in your honor this year. An interpretation of your spider lady painting; one of many pieces of yours that cover my walls. Wherever I’ve lived over the last 15+ years, it’s always hung over my bed. To have you watching over me. I gotta say, you could be doing a better job managing my insomnia. And do you think you could do anything about the night sweats? Perimenopause is a real bitch of a time.
I’m turning 40 soon. Can you believe it? I don’t know if it’s the significance of this birthday, or other things going on in my life, but you’ve been front of mind a lot this year. Granted, you are, in some way, always on my mind since you are always with me. As loved ones lost tend to be.
I got Freddie tuned earlier this year (nearly a decade overdue). I was digging through all my music looking for a specific song I wanted to plunk out and sing, and I came across a letter you wrote to me when I was 5 years old. I had no recollection of having it. But there it was, slipped into a stack of miscellaneous things. I sobbed. You and Grandpa always made me feel so loved. It felt like a sign you were relieved I finally got Freddie in playable condition again.
Thank you for being my first piano teacher. I know both of us made it a difficult venture, and we smartly parted ways in that department soon after starting, but you gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life. Music helped me find my people and deal with my big (undiagnosed) ADHD feelings. The piano became my diary.
When I found out I got into LaGuardia for High School on piano, the first thing I wanted to do was call you. You had been gone 3 ½ years at that point. That may have been the first moment I consciously remember thinking, “oh, this is grief.”
I wish you could’ve seen me fall in love with acting. I know you would’ve loved running lines with me and giving me notes that I would be annoyed with but secretly find helpful. I know you’d be cheering from the front row every show. Sometimes when I am particularly nervous on an opening night, I get a sudden whiff of your perfume. An ever-calming scent.
If it’s possible, I think I miss you more now than ever before. It’s fascinating to me how grief evolves. I think we all live under an initial denial that there will be an expiration date for it. One day, you wake up, and the process is done. But it keeps evolving with you. And while grief can be painful, it is an extension of love, so I think it’s a good thing it never truly leaves. That would mean the love left too. And I can’t imagine where I’d be if I didn’t continue loving the people I’ve lost and letting their love for me keep carrying through.
I’ve mourned not being able to know you in my adulthood (you, Grandpa, Grandma Evelyn, and even dear Grandpa Harry, whom I never got to meet). I love hearing Mom talk about you; I see so much of you in her. Her wit, independence, stubbornness, kookiness. And I know I have much of that, too. (We are heavy on the kooky here, aren’t we?). But it’s not the same as getting to know you more fully firsthand. I am often jealous of Chris for this. He got so much more time with you and Grandpa. Thank you for helping raise him; he’s the best big brother.
You’d be so proud of Chris. His resilience and genius are something to behold. And he’s an incredible father. You barely got more than a year with sweet Aloh; you’d get a kick out of her. She’s brilliant (like Chris), multi-talented (your many talents are spread across the lot of us), and exceptionally kind (Dad frequently talks about how kind you and Grandpa were). She’s boldly and authentically herself all of the time. I know that comes from you and Mom. I’ve been a little slower to fully adapt to being comfortable in just being myself, but I’m getting there. And happy to report, we are all wonderfully weird.
I am not one to ruminate over possibilities of an afterlife, but I do like to think of you and Grandpa being together somewhere. Laughing, bickering, holding hands. Sending down bolts of hope when we need it. My God, you and Grandpa would be devastated by what’s going on in our country right now. Although I would love to hear the colorful names and phrases you would surely come up with for these pitiful “leaders.”
Oh, Grandma, there are so many things I wish I could ask you about the world. About being a woman. About books, and music, and art. About love. Grandma, I simply want you to still be here. But I’m grateful I will always get to hang your art on my walls.
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