#3: I Still Miss Someone

I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
because I still miss someone
-Johnny Cash, I Still Miss Someone

The days come unceasingly, an infinite march of moments, meetings, and must-do's that occupy the minutes.  There is often little time for reflection.  When it does come, however, the silence does not travel alone.  It brings with it a cadre of thoughts that seep forward from the subconscious.  When the bustle of the day dies down, when the endless army of technological distractions go dark, her memory sweeps in like the winds on the high plains.

It was last fall when my dad called to tell me that my Grandma Jo had died.  It was bittersweet news because after battling illness for so long, my Grandma would no longer endure suffering.  It was bittersweet because after carrying the loneliness of missing my Grandpa for over 21 years, my Grandma would be reunited with her lifelong love.  Here's how I put it at her funeral:

A conversation I had with Grandma makes today a little more bearable.  We were talking about all the tests and treatments and doctor's visits Grandma had been through, and then she paused.  She said, 'I want to get better.  I want to be with all of you as long as I can.  But I've missed your Grandpa for so long now, that if it's not meant to be, I'm ready to go see him.'

Bittersweet.  I'm happy for my Grandma.  But seven months later, her absence still leaves a tremendous void. 

I read once that Abraham Lincoln didn't necessarily believe in heaven in the traditional sense.  Death took many of his loved ones at a very early age in his life.  When his mother died, she told him, "Abraham, I'm leaving you now, and I will never see you again."  Instead, Lincoln came to believe that one could live on in eternity if they accomplished something worthy enough that it preserved their memory in this lifetime.

I think of my Grandma Jo in this way, too.  I see her in so many different places and feel her in so many ways, too many to name, really.  I'm reminded of her when my mom or dad will tell a humorous story about her.  I'm reminded of her when I come to work in the town she once lived in.  I even find myself driving by her old house and picturing her sitting on the front porch.  I'm reminded of her when we gather as a family for the holidays or a milestone event.  I'm reminded of her when I see my baby girl that carries her name.  I'm reminded of her when I see the chest that was always in her home and is now my daughter's toy box. 

In all these moments, I can see her smile and hear her laugh. I can sense her pride in her family.  All these thoughts and feelings give me comfort.

But I still miss someone.