a letter to grandma

reflections on my grandmother’s passing, and the ways she still lives in me.

April 1st, Fool’s Day once again.

This strange, aching day when I always hope your passing is actually a prank.
That maybe you’re still here.
That someone got the story wrong, maybe a fool for believing it.

Yet, it's another year without you, Grandma. You, the most beautiful tree woman of all time.

Lately, it has been easier, but no less intense. You know that saying about how time heals all wounds? Well… it doesn’t.

What I’ve learned in the long seconds of these brief years is that grief doesn’t heal. It’s really not about overcoming or getting used to it.
It’s about living with it, now transformed by it.

Grief spoke a little quieter today, the anniversary of your death.
Grief let me keep busy, let me play, cook, dance. And because grief has changed shape, I can hear your voice even louder.

And to answer you, I say:
Here, Grandma, I’m alive. Truly. Honoring you. Remembering you.

There are fewer tears now (even if they sometimes show up and overcome me). There is definitely more laughter. Feelings have deepened.

The certainty that is death has brought me the truest impossibility in life: You are not missed any less. That could never be.

---

I can almost feel your hand on mine, hear you saying in a low voice:
“Now, now, filhinha. Let it go.”

I won’t let go, Grandma.

I delve deeper.

---

It’s been years now… and I wish I could write something beautiful, something big. Pour my whole heart out like I usually do.

But the truth is… I’m tired. A little (a lot) sick. Like I’ve been ever since you left.

I can hear your voice:

“Oh, little girl… what nonsense, getting sick over this.”

Yeah, yeah, Grandma. I know. Remember though, you did the same exact thing, you got sick and did not deal with your own grief. So don’t even start, Grandma.

What I really want is a hug, to lay my head on your lap. Your worried little nervous laugh. A recipe for tea that’s equal parts medicine, herbs, and prayer. I want to call you and tell you about the wonderful things my baby girl did today.

Your voice echoes in me:
“It’s going to be okay, Mazinha.”

And my daughter, sitting beside me, repeats what you used to say:
“Grandma Lilian lives forever in our hearts, mommy.”

I taught her that. As you taught me.

It’s not a prank. You’re really gone.

But you stayed, too.

---

I'm still not sure how to write about you in the past tense.
Maybe I never will. The words just vanish, making a mess of what I'm trying to write. Fingers locked, throat aching.

---

Anyone who’s ever met you said the same thing:
“What an elegant woman!"

Yes, elegance is the defining word for you, Dona Lilian. Beauty. Poise. Grace. Pride. All yours.

You learned and unlearned the world with an always-open mind, even if you're the most stubborn Capricorn I’ve ever met.

It must have been the Libra rising, your beauty showed fully, the lipstick in place, the coiffed hair, the “never let them see you lose anything, especially not your temper” attitude.

I learned all about the Greek Goddesses by observing you.
A mix of a Loving Demeter, with hints of Great Warrior Athena, a huge dose of Hera Queen of the Skies, loads of Hearth Keeper Hestia and generous portions of Dazzling Aphrodite.

You were books, encyclopedias, myths. Taught me to love mythology and to create my own concepts of spirituality, not bound by strict religious rules. You were a woman who lit candles and made promises to saints, but never made me set foot into a church.

You made a promise to Saint Joseph and gave up eating melons for a year so I could have a safe labor.

All your promises involved food, somehow.
It makes sense, for that's how you loved: feeding us until we burst.

You were always the first person I wanted to call: to tell about my day, my fears, my joys, movies, books, politics or nothing at all.

I called you during labor, paralyzed by fear, and you opened the gates of Spring:
“Your Persephone is arriving, minha filha.”

You taught me to talk. To really talk, to really say something.
To look at a painting and feel it.
To watch a film and expand my worldview.
To read a book and foster my imagination.
To hear an opera and let myself cry.

You tried to teach me how to sew and stitch… that one didn’t stick (not your fault).

You taught me that distance doesn’t matter when we love someone for real.

No one ever asked me for as much patience as you did… and I’m still learning.

You were the most patient woman I know… even if you read the end of every book before the middle, loved a good spoiler, and cooked like a whirlwind (that part I clearly inherited: burns, cuts, stubbed toes and all).

And speaking of cooking… I know everyone says this about their grandma, but no one comes even close, I’m so sorry. Every grandmother in Brazil, the world and beyond can try, but no one can beat your cooking. Au concours.

Your strawberry cream birthday cake? Untouchable.

But I’ll keep trying to get it right. I’ll honor the recipe forever. Because it’s not just about the ingredients, it was something magical in your hands. They held something alchemical. Something divine.

The universe is wise. The trip I made home before you died gave me the chance to hug you again. I believe you waited for me to come with my baby and then leave.

Just like I believe you went to meet Grandpa… The one great love of your life (you could have chosen to stay a bit longer, but we won't get into that, will we?)

---

I could write a dissertation, a sacred book, a mythic tale about you.
About your love story with my grandfather, in its contradictions and imperfections.
Your recipes.
Your hands.
Your elegance.
Your prayers.
Your fire.

I believe you could not let those who love you take care of you in the end.
You were the caregiver and it became unbearable to be in a different position.

I was angry at you for a long time because you would not let us do that.
I'm not mad anymore, Grandma, it's alright. I could never stay mad at you for long.

Being loved by you was the greatest blessing of my life.

You are the one person I never doubted loved me. Not once.

And I want you to know, Grandma:
My love for you is infinite universe.
My admiration is eternal fire.
My gratitude is deep, wide ocean.

How could I even consider to say you don't exist anymore if you exist in me, in my cells and in my daughter’s cells?

We are because you were. Because you are.

My daughter and I continue you.

You live in us.

And we go on.

---