My grandmother died recently. She had been struggling with her health for awhile, and towards the end could barely even eat. Now she's at peace.
I am sad. I am not heart-broken. I wasn't that close to my grandmother. My mom (her daughter) had a completely fucked-up childhood, and part of me was, and is, still angry at my grandmother about it. I do have good memories of my grandmother. I remember her singing around the house. She was the only person to ever call me "Shel-baby" even when I was grown. She was stubborn, and opinionated, and loved the Lord.
What makes me more sad, in a selfish way, is that as I get older, and family members and friends pass away, it feels like I'm losing pieces of myself. There are shared experiences that perhaps only myself and that person knew about, and now I am the sole keeper of that memory. My brother and mother have already passed away. There are memories that we shared that no one else in the world did, and now it's up to me to remember. It's a scary responsibility. I have trouble remembering what I need to get at the store without a list. I know so many things have slipped away as time has passed, and I mourn the loss of every memory. Now I see the attraction for blogging, or journalling, or writing memoirs. It's a way we can desperately get everything we remember out somewhere where other people can share in the memories before they are lost forever.