an impossible sighting of birds
in memory
There is a great paradox that in death, there is a small piece of joy. This little joy is hard to find when you lose someone who meant so much to you, someone like Carol — who shaped the world of your mother, her siblings, and consequently, you, with her grace, her sense of humor, her raucous dinner parties, and her intellect. The little joy there is to be had is that now the family who loved her dearly gets to retell the stories that have been retold millions of time before, and for a moment, relive the warmth and care of a wife, mother, and woman who loved fiercely and wanted things to be “just right.”
My Grandma O’Marro instilled in me the sense that the way you do anything is the way you do everything. And that to do something well is to do it with love. Grandma loved in the quiet, unassuming ways that, at the end of the day, are the most important things. To be loved by Carol meant that you were always well fed with beautiful home-cooked meals, that you always had a warm sweater to put on before going into the cold, and that there was always someone to patiently listen to you, when you felt small, upset, or heartbroken. So much good advice and laughter were shared in her blue kitchen.
Her grandchildren knew her as Grandma Dickens — a name she chose for herself, after one of her beloved boston terriers, after the English author. Grandma was sharp and stubborn, and spoke fondly of her bold decisions. She left school in 7th grade and learned how to swim for the first time well into adulthood. Grandma met Grandpa when she crashed a wedding. Suffice to say, Grandma was self-determined. She encouraged her children and grandchildren to do the same: to take ownership of your own life and to find your own way to happiness.
We are all obviously devastated, but in a way, we understand that Grandma lived her life through the end fully on her terms. She came into this life dignified, and has left it that way, too.
In our family there is a belief in the supernatural: prophetic dreams and the spirits of loved ones returning as impossible sightings of birds. Some of us come back as magpies to perch in the window and sing little songs. Carol was often visited by birds.
To me, it’s not a silly coincidence that this is a week of unusual, tremendous rain in LA. Or that she passed after Ash Wednesday, right on the birthday of my dad’s mother Marilyn. When I got the call, my mom said to me: “Don’t you think Marilyn’s getting ready for the party in heaven?”
Of course, there would be an invitation from the other side addressed to Carol; she was the life of the party.