Grandma Lloyd

I've been greatly blessed for nearly 25 years that I haven't had to deal with much death in my life. For 24 1/2 years I've never once had to say goodbye to someone I loved; I never once had to watch them close the casket on a face that I knew to once be so full of life. Clearly my 24 1/2 years of luck and blessing have run its course.

In mid July we buried my Grandpa Wheeler. Now this Saturday, we'll bury my Grandma Lloyd. And while in my head I logically know this really isn't the worst thing. I know logically in my head that she lived 93 years of a great life, and that the past few years were difficult for her. I also can't help but wish that she were still here. That I could go sit on her blue couch with her and hold her boney, fraile hand even though she probably still wouldn't remember who I am. I still can't help but wish I could giggle at her as shuffled determinedly across the floor with that crazy curly wig of hers that I hated. And I still really wish that I could sit on that blue couch in her living room and listen to her read me fairy tales, or sit at her little table in the kitchen and eat her fried potatoes, or even just hear her promise someone that she'll "dance at their wedding."

I owe so much to my Grandma Lloyd for the person I am, for my love of English and reading. And I couldn't be more proud when my dad tells me I remind him of her because in my eyes she was the perfect grandma, always sweet and kind and interested in what you had to say, always stuffing you with food, but she also had just the right amount of sassiness too.

I wrote a poem about my grandpa when he passed, but I don't know if I have it in me to write one about her, too much to say. So in honor of her, I'll just close with two poems that I know she'll appreciate.

Death, be not proud
by John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school, where children strove At recess, in the ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. Or rather, he passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.