The little girl in the center is gone tonight.
My grandmother died a few hours ago in Ohio. In her mid-ninetees, she had outlived about the majority of her eight children, including my mom, her oldest daughter. I was grateful to have an opportunity to visit her in October, in the company of her youngest daughter, who was with her today. Aunt Susan told me this morning that Grandma had said she was ready to join those children who had so saddened her when they preceded her in leaving this life.
During my early years, our family moved frequently from state to state, and it seemed as though the only continuity in my life was the presence of Grandma Flury in her big comfortable white rural Ohio house, with various aunts, uncles and cousins nearby. We would often visit there for Christmas, and nearly every summer would find us returning to keep her busy for at least a few weeks.
There was always ice cream in the big chest freezer out in the laundry room.
It's really something, all her kids, and their wives and their kids - all the lives and memories she leaves them with. With her passing, there are no remaining grandparents or parents, and I will not be leaving anyone in my wake as she did.
On my way to visit her a few months ago, I stopped along the way at the old house in upstate New York where I spent most of my teen years. A mature forest had covered what I remembered as a hay field. It made me aware of my own advancing age, as do each of these losses in the stream of life's continuity.
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