My grandma’s sister died. She was 2 years younger than my grandma. I read her obituary online today. How do people decide what to put in an obituary? How do they figure out the bullet points of someone’s life and summarize it in a paragraph? Though always tastefully written, it holds no true definition of who that person was.
The obituary states the typical: date of birth, date of death, visitation times, service and burial (she had wanted my dad—her nephew—to officiate her funeral service). It goes on to list family who died before her and family she left behind.
Then it said something else that caught my attention: “…In 1987 Suvilla and Joe moved to the warmth of Arizona to enjoy their retirement. They moved back to Kalona in 2003. … Suvilla was a creative person – sewing, quilting, cake decorating, oil painting, ceramics, flower arranging, cooking and more. All that she created was made perfectly. She was a giving person who touched the lives of all who met her, be it a radiology trainee, a foreign exchange student, her grandchildren or nieces, or a total stranger. Her immaculate home had an open door and was a welcome haven to those who entered. Her home was always surrounded by the beautiful flowers that thrived under her green thumb.”
I thought that I didn’t remember anything about my great aunt Suvilla—I always had so many cousins and aunts and uncles around that I don’t really have memories of any of my Greats—but it turns out that I do.
It must have been when they lived in Arizona that my family visited them. I only deduce this because I know we were on vacation and I know it was warm. I was little, really little. I remember a room in their house that had paneling on one wall and lots of windows on the other walls—almost a sunroom maybe?—and the light came in and splayed across the thick, shag carpeting and it felt warm against my feet. I think the carpeting was orange or possibly green; it was thick and warm and my toes could make designs in it. There were plants in that room, all over, growing and hanging. I remember a crocheted plant hanger, those old cream-colored ones,hanging from the ceiling. I vaguely remember a fish tank, but I can’t trust my memory one hundred percent on that.
My only other memory of that visit was Great Aunt Suvilla taking me into a room filled with ceramics. She let me pick something to take home with me. I picked a ceramic cat that she had painted like an orange tabby. It had blue eyes and a curly tail. It was hollow inside so if I tinked my fingernails on it, it gave a little “pling” sound. I felt so special that she let me take that cat with me and I wrapped it in tissue paper until we got home to Iowa where I placed it on my dresser in front of the mirror so that I could see the front and the back of the cat at the same time. (Great Aunt Suvilla may have created a monster in me with her gift. We later visited someone else who had a series of books about animals that they were giving to their grandchildren and I boldly thought they would give one to me as well. Imagine my embarrassment and disappointment to learn it wasn’t customary to give gifts to every child who enters your home.)
I have no idea where that ceramic cat is now. I had actually completely forgotten about it until just moments ago when I read the obituary. Those are my memories of Great Aunt Suvilla.
I wonder if my grandma understands. I wonder if she’ll remember or if every day she wakes up still wondering how her sister is doing. Just a week ago when I visited her, she pointed out through the window to the cottage where her sister lives. (Although, she did remember at that time that her sister wasn’t doing very well and was in a room in the nursing home for the time being.)
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| My grandma and her sisters this past September |
And if I’m completely honest, the notion of my great aunt passing away is as scary to me as I had hoped it wouldn’t be. Because her passing means that there is one less sister. The reality of one passing on means that more will as well. Then there were four, now there are three. And my grandma leads the troops at a strong 94. But someday, as morbid as it sounds, it will come. And I dread that day with my whole being.
My heart breaks at the thought of my own grandmother’s obituary. It will list Emily Crall as a surviving grandchild. That’s all. I’m just two words in her life’s bullet points. It’s no matter what they read though; I am more than two words or a bullet point. I’m her grandchild and she loves me. She told me so just last week. Those are the parts of her life that slip between the lines that no one can read. My name will fall in line with almost 20 others. I will be Emily Crall, surviving grandchild.
But for now, her and I, we’re still surviving together. And for that, I’m grateful.
To my Great Uncle, his children, his grandchildren, and his great grandchildren, I am truly sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what it feels like. I don’t want to imagine what it feels like. I’m sorry.
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