As I looked through my address book yesterday, I realized I had neglected updating it for quite awhile, and it was in dire need of some attention. Now, I realize I don't send as much "snail-mail" as I used to, but I really LOVE writing real letters, as well as receive them, and I was suddenly compelled to make all the necessary changes and updates so I could start writing letters again....and send them to the right places too.
I flipped through it slowly, noticing all the changes. Changes in addresses, changes in relationships, and names and addresses of those who passed on. Each entry that was no longer valid, seemed to signify something; a loss of life, loss of friendship, people's life changes, and MY life changes. In some ways, it was a visual reminder of some of my worst mistakes as well.
I noticed I still had my grandmother's address written down, in spite of her death years ago. As I put my correcter pen to work, I had a wave of guilt wash over me. I felt as though my actions were essentially erasing these people from my life, and I felt awful. Was the lack of correction my way of remembering them, of honoring them? Sounds strange, but felt true.
I realized I had never erased those addresses in the past, because I felt bad about it, as though if I did, I was saying they didn't exist. As my eyes welled up with tears, I gently and deliberately whited out my grandmother's address, and all the other incorrect and invalid entries that remained. I knew my grandmother, up in heaven, would not care, and her past existence in my life was evident in everything around me; her antique furniture and linens I inherited, spoons and silverware I use daily, and her antique lamp in my dining room. I didn't need the entry in order to remember her, or know that I loved her. I had to move on.
As I walked into the kitchen to refill my cold cup of coffee, I glanced in the dining room mirror, and I saw her. I saw her in my reflection, looking back at me. In fact, every day I see her as well as my other grandparents in the faces and expressions of my children, in the flashes of memory triggered by a smell, or sight, when I use their furniture, or when I complete daily tasks that remind me of them. I see them reflected in the traits of my other family members, because we are just that: family.
No, I was most certainly not negating her existence. I realized in my own way, I've kept their memory alive by BEING alive. They live on through myself, my children, and my other family members, and as I carefully erased those entries in my address book, I softly cried, and whispered "I love you."
