so many ways of saying goodbye

flew to Illinois for my grandmother's memorial,

just one year after my grandfather's service.

they had been married 74 years.

they say that happens.

that when one partner dies,

the other goes shortly thereafter.

i dug through the attic of their old farmhouse

one last time —

found some photographs of their trip to Colorado

in the fall of 1991,

not far from where i live now.

i love thinking about them hiking in the mountains

i've grown so fond of.

i brought back some old tapered candlestick holders.

a glass-blown vase.

i walked up the creaky stairs to a tiny bedroom,

the one my mother grew up in.

dug through dozens of long, handwritten love letters

from old boyfriends,

old movie stubs and newspaper clippings.

and i imagined what she was like at 17,

all blue-eyed and curly-haired.

i remembered that this was her first time

doing life too —

and i was filled with softness for her.

suddenly i saw that her and i were the same.

my mother cried walking through the kitchen,

just before we left.

i imagine she was reminiscing on all the times

she sat at the counter and talked with her mom.

all the times they fought.

all the times they laughed.

i think she knew it was the last time she'd be there.

maybe one day she will return,

but it would never be the same as it was.

so many ways of saying goodbye.

—

we scattered my grandmother's ashes

right next to the cornfield

and the spot in their yard where they used to sit

in their swing chair.

i'll never forget Wendell and Patricia

swinging under the pines,

holding hands, eyes glistening,

knowing they lived a grander life than anyone would ever know.