My grandmother died this morning.
She died, and I am not sad.
Not being sad makes me sad.
You can read a bit about her here. I could tell you more. I could tell you of her habitual lies, her manipulations, her guilt-tripping, her perpetual role as victim. I could tell you how she looked to her children to care for her, when they were literally still children. I could tell you that when her eldest son (my father) died, she lost the only source of income she'd known for decades. I could tell you that she never got a job because "it's really hard to get up in the morning." I could tell you that she never took an ounce of responsibility for the havoc she wrecked on her children's lives.
I could also tell you that I don't know much of my grandmother's life beyond what I witnessed myself or was told by my father. I could tell you that her mother was the kind of crazy that doesn't even exist anymore, thanks to the modern world of pharmaceuticals. I could tell you that she was married to a viciously abusive man. I could tell you that she left that man and was disowned by that crazy mother for doing so (Catholics just don't do divorce). I could tell you that she later got knocked up by a man who disappeared as soon as he heard the news. I could tell you that she was a single mom to three children without any support from her family.
Who am I to judge?
Once upon a time, she was somebody's newborn baby; somebody's best friend; somebody's girlfriend, wife, mother. And though I never experienced it, it's impossible for me to believe that there wasn't some pure goodness in her somewhere.
May her troubled spirit sleep in peace, and may her surviving children put old wounds to rest with her body.
The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown
1 hour ago