Remembering

This weekend, the Robies and friends gathered in Ohio to say goodbye to my grandmother, Marie Robie. My aunt’s house is on old farmland, wild and lush. The finches swirled overhead as we ate fresh cheese, drank wine and caught up.

My father created a tribute. It was the story of Marie: a collage of text and old photos to inspire memories from the assembled. We cried, told stories, made jokes, and remembered.

To die is to say goodbye. Without the trappings of the funeral, a service, and a burial, I wondered if it was possible to create the closure necessary to balm the sadness of the loss. If I am to understand one thing about my grandmother, it was that she made the home the center of her life. As we celebrated life outside the old farmhouse, I don’t think she would have wanted it any other way.

The sun sank red and our voices sang of mom with the locust legs.