For the first time in my life, funerals make sense. Not that I’ve endured many funerals in all my twenty-seven years but I’ve been to enough to question their existence. For the obvious reasons that I suppose anyone does – they’re boring, expensive, sometimes insincere, but mostly, depressing. Funerals are a drag. Don’t get me wrong, they’re totally necessary – just not necessary for me. And when I decided to live abroad – which I’ve been doing for close to three years now – I concluded that funerals, memorials, deaths were not going to be one of the reasons I would make a cross-continental trip. If anything bad happened, they would know I meant well from where I was. I didn’t need to go home to say good-bye to someone who wasn’t there.

And then my Nana died. Rather unexpectedly.

Now, my Nana, is not just my grandmother. She is the reigning relative. The top-dog of all my aunts and uncles and cousins. She was our beacon, our glue, and all the necessary metaphors for someone whose made-for-TV supremacy guides a family and holds them together.

Part of me knew I wasn’t just losing a grandparent. I wasn’t just losing a cliché. She was an enigma. She was my role-model.

But, even so, the past two years had desensitized me in a way. When I lived in West Africa, in a country where the average life expectancy is half of what it is in the states, I acquired a bit of a nonchalance towards death.

Because, when I got the news about Nana, my first thought was, Shit.

Followed by, Well, you know, she’s old. And she didn’t really suffer. And she lived an independent life until her last days. So, you know, that’s that.

And then I thought, Wow. So much is going to change. My family has been struck hard with this one. My family dynamic, my traditions, my memories, are going to completely shift. And I won’t be there for it– I’m going to miss the shift.

And suddenly, before I even realized it, I was grieving.

And I didn’t want to be. Because I was alone. Well technically, sitting in the same room as me were my lovable yet obtuse male roommates who were going out of their way to ignore my blubbering. I would excuse myself to go bawl my eyes out alone in my bed or on the toilet and come back red-eyed and sniffling. When I left the room for the third or fourth time, it finally hit me. Who wants to grieve this way? I wanted to be surrounded by other people who felt the same way I did and who wanted to hold me and listen to me talk about my Nana and laugh about things that aren’t that ridiculous and cry like the world has ended for weird ten minute spurts.

And that’s when funerals made sense. No one is supposed to grieve alone. If I didn’t go grieve with my family, if I stayed an ocean away and mourned alone, I would probably be down for a few days and eventually go about my life as normal until I felt nothing.

You’re not supposed to feel nothing when someone dies.

***

It’s nice to think that I got to spend one last Christmas Eve at Nana’s house this past year. I’m lucky I got that. That and twenty-odd other Christmas Eves, I guess. She always said, You can do what you want any other holiday, but on Christmas Eve, you’re at my house.

She came to my house – my parent’s house – for Christmas dinner this past year, which she rarely does, as my Aunt Carol normally hosts her. But maybe she wasn’t up for that this year, so she came to our house instead. And my last memories of her are at this Christmas dinner.

My mom and I had been slaving away in the kitchen all day, which is also not typical. I’m not normally the first pick when it comes to helping in the kitchen. But, I had missed the previous two Christmases and I wanted to spend the day with my Mom – making up for the ones I had missed.

Seven hours later, I announced that dinner was ready and that I was instating a new rule: chefs and helpers eat first. So, for the first time in my life, my mom fixed her plate first and was the first one at the table. I sat down next to her and we clinked our wine glasses together and toasted our hard work.

My Nana, the third to the table, came and sat across from me as I told my mom how much work Christmas dinner is.

I said, “God, I really am exhausted! Now I know why we made sandwiches that one year! Like I can’t believe you do this every year! I really admire you. You’re such a good mom!”

And my mom said, “Hey thanks! I admire you too! You’re a good daughter.”

And that’s when I catch Nana watching us. She’s got a sparkle in her eye and says, “Well sounds like we’ve got ourselves some mutual admiration!”

What a goofy thing to say. But also, what a typical Nana thing to say. And the way she said it too, with her lips curled back over her teeth. Loud – like there was a room full of people to hear her announce that my mom and I just had a touching moment.

Actually, I realize now that she probably wasn’t aware of how loud she was talking – as she was rather in denial about needing a hearing aid.

But, I’m really glad she heard this. I knew she was proud of us.

After dinner, I stood next to her chair and she put her arm around my waist, letting her hand rest comfortably on the layer of stomach that pops out a little over my jeans. I put my hand on top of hers and said, “Feel that? That’s what America does to you.” She gave my muffin top a squeeze and says, “I’m sure you’ll lose that in Morocco.”

My figure was always a go-to topic of discussion between Nana and I. I would bring up if I was working out or dieting or if I had lost or gained weight accordingly. I think it started as a defense mechanism against the candid commentary people adopt when they become grandparents. If I chose to turn the conversation to my body, it was on my terms and it couldn’t be regarded as scrutiny.

And I think this stems from the first time Nana tried to give me her hand-me-downs when I was a teenager.

As a senior in high school, I was having the normal body image issues most girls are affronted with. I was still pretending that I could somehow acquire the body I had when I was a preteen ballerina – if I only skipped lunch a few days a week and purged any and all junk food. This was obviously a pipe dream – that I could reattain a twelve-year-old dancer’s body without actually being twelve – not only had I grown a foot taller in five years, but I had also acquired boobs and a gut and irreversible cankles. But in my mind, I was simply an eating disorder away from shopping in the junior’s department again.

That is until Nana presented me with that skirt. It was floor-length, above-the-natural-waist, plaid, and woolen. It hung heavy from the hanger as she held it up next to me at the dinner table where I was sitting elbow to elbow with other Gannon relatives.

I didn’t recognize this skirt. I had never seen her wear it. I had never insincerely complimented her on it. I didn’t recall watching her unenthusiastically open it at a past Christmas Eve. And I definitely couldn’t fathom why this skirt was being held up in front of me instead of one of my cousins.

“This should fit you, right?”

It didn’t matter if it did. The style, the pattern, the material was all wrong. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a garment. But all that mattered, in that moment, was that my grandmother was announcing to the room that she thought we were the same size. And it took only a glance at her solid frame to realize, for the first time, we probably were. And I was mortified.

But, I played nonchalant and gave her and the skirt a simple, “Nope.”

Everyone laughed. They were thinking, You can’t just say, No, to Nana like that! But I did. And now, everyone remembers this story for my curt reaction.

I remember this story as the first time I thought I was like her. And I don’t just mean because we could wear the same size plaid skirts.

My Nana was a badass. And most of my childhood, having a badass grandparent usually meant she was someone I should respect because… well… she was kind of scary.

Like the time she caught me rearranging her ceramic nativity scene. I was five and thought I had a better eye for spacing figurines on a mound of fake snow. And when she caught me, with my little arms elbow deep in “snow” with all the wise men laying on the floor next to me, all she said was, “Time for a nap.” I nearly jumped out of my skin. I had made such a mess. She was just calmly watching me from the doorway of the living room.

My intentions were good but I didn’t try to explain myself. And I didn’t dare look at her. I shook the snow from my hands and walked straight to the back bedroom without making eye contact. And, of course, I didn’t nap. I just laid in the bed, wide awake, thinking that I was in for it at any moment.

And when I was told nap time was over, I came back to the living room guiltily. The nativity scene was reset the way it was before I tried to save baby Jesus from sinking in the snow. And I never tried to change it again. She never actually yelled at me or told me that I had done something wrong. But she didn’t have to. I knew I was wrong and she knew that I knew that. Her tone and demeanor said it all. That comes with being a badass – she had the ability to intimidate me by doing very little.

That is until she was holding a skirt in front of my face that I didn’t want. That’s when I realized that I was kind of a badass too. You’d have to be to say, No, to Nana, right?

After I turned down that skirt and got a round of laughs from my family, I remember thinking that I should feel bad. But then I didn’t because I knew I had acted just as she would’ve in the same situation. She wouldn’t have taken something she didn’t want or have any use for just for the sake of someone’s feelings. I inherited her candor and practicality. I am my Nana’s granddaughter.

When I think about her holding up that skirt now and me refusing it, I can picture her face – and I don’t know if this image is coming from my memory or my imagination – but it’s the same face that was looking across the table at me this last Christmas. The one with a sparkle of pride in it. And I guess it doesn’t matter if that look really happened or if I created it. Either way, it’s real to me.

Originally written April 14, 2015