The End of an Era

Last week my grandmother, Anita Kiester Cratty, passed away. When I heard the news I was in the middle of our THIRD round of stomach flu this month, but luckily the nausea subsided long enough for me to make a 36 hour jaunt to western Pennsylvania to attend the funeral.

My mom was raised in Pennsylvania, and a large part of her extended family still lives there. That was actually where my parents met; they went to high school together in Slippery Rock. But despite my Pennsylvania history and roots, I showed up as a Visitor. Pennsylvania doesn't belong to me, even in my childhood memories of the vacations we took there. Having come from the high plains desert here in Denver, everything felt strange. The air was damp, the western Pennsylvania accent was distinctive, and most startling were the trees. In every direction was green, green, green. As we drove the winding roads I felt like the forest was rushing the shoulder of the road, pressing in on us. In that landscape there is no way to orient yourself, and I felt lost everywhere we went. And I couldn't help but wonder what was lurking behind the looming tangle of trees. Not so different from death, I suppose.

I love funerals. I know that sounds macabre, but it's true. People act differently, and talk differently at funerals than at any other place or time. It's like for a few hours they become the most real version of themselves. I suppose that's what grief does. It strips you down and leaves you raw, unguarded. But as I watched my mother, aunts, and cousins mourning my grandmother, I felt even more like a side line observer. We weren't close. I hadn't seen my grandma for years. Yet it was significant to witness the close of her lifetime. My mother no longer has a mother here on Earth. That's a difficult thing. It goes by fast, doesn't it?