My great aunt died a few weeks ago. Her name was Dot, and she was my grandmother's older sister.
Dot was married to Carmine, my grandfather's brother. I never knew him, but he's always been a constant presence in stories and childhood fables.
The children of both couples grew up together, almost as siblings. There was a path through the woods connecting the two houses, and I'm told it was used frequently. They'd sometimes carry out "trades", wherein the two families would swap one child for another. Because they shared a last name, the families differentiated themselves from one another by using their respective fathers' first and middle initials: the CRs, for Carmine Robert, and the JLs, for Joseph Leonard. We use those initials to this day. I am a JL.
Losing one of the matriarchs was a serious blow to the family, particularly, of course, for the CRs. It has also, I think, been exceptionally hard on my grandmother, who shared a remarkable bond with her sister and strongest ally, and who has now lost three sisters within the span of a year.
This is what happens: people age, and they die. Their families mourn them, because families lose something precious when their elders die. Families move on and, scarcely before the wound has healed, they discover that they, too, have grown old and will soon die. This process, this cycle, is no revelation.
But what does it mean when you're removed from the process altogether? What good are you when you're far away, locked in storage, unable to participate in the comforting of your beloved grandmother?
This may sound as if I'm buckling under the pressure of my decisions, or as if I'm about to give up. The first impression is correct, but I will not give up. Still, the problem remains: how do I begin to build a new life here - one that is as rich and full as the old one?
Dot was married to Carmine, my grandfather's brother. I never knew him, but he's always been a constant presence in stories and childhood fables.
The children of both couples grew up together, almost as siblings. There was a path through the woods connecting the two houses, and I'm told it was used frequently. They'd sometimes carry out "trades", wherein the two families would swap one child for another. Because they shared a last name, the families differentiated themselves from one another by using their respective fathers' first and middle initials: the CRs, for Carmine Robert, and the JLs, for Joseph Leonard. We use those initials to this day. I am a JL.
Losing one of the matriarchs was a serious blow to the family, particularly, of course, for the CRs. It has also, I think, been exceptionally hard on my grandmother, who shared a remarkable bond with her sister and strongest ally, and who has now lost three sisters within the span of a year.
This is what happens: people age, and they die. Their families mourn them, because families lose something precious when their elders die. Families move on and, scarcely before the wound has healed, they discover that they, too, have grown old and will soon die. This process, this cycle, is no revelation.
But what does it mean when you're removed from the process altogether? What good are you when you're far away, locked in storage, unable to participate in the comforting of your beloved grandmother?
This may sound as if I'm buckling under the pressure of my decisions, or as if I'm about to give up. The first impression is correct, but I will not give up. Still, the problem remains: how do I begin to build a new life here - one that is as rich and full as the old one?
A wedding celebration/farewell party held at my grandmother's house for Rami and me.
Edit: I wrote this, posted it, and subsequently waffled over whether or not it was too personal (and depressing). When I review this blog, I notice that it often acts as a chronicle of how homesick I am, and how well or not well I'm dealing with being here. I really do regret this. I had wanted this to be a journal of things I've learned, not a personal diary of pain and heartsickness. As a result, I've taken to writing for catharsis in a private journal. I'm afraid I'll have to be honest, though: there is very little about my life that I feel compelled to share in this forum. At the moment, at any rate.
I struggle to present an honest portrayal of my experience, yet I also seek to protect that portrayal from fraught emotions and Livejournal-esque personal admissions.
Anyway, one of the interesting things about writing (and blogging) is that it motivates me to live and learn in a way that allows me to write. So, I'm going to keep trying to do just that. But, in the interest of honesty, I might fall short of my goals for the time being.
