My memories won’t reveal her complete story. Perhaps she tried to give her secrets away, but as a twelve year old girl I probably wasn’t listening. And even if I paid attention, her words blended together, my focus scattered like a tourist exploring a new place for the first time.
This is what I know about her. She was my mom’s aunt, but more significantly, she arranged the marriage between my father and mother over fifty years ago. She was thirty-seven when she connected the two people who eventually made me. She passed away yesterday, seventeen days after I celebrated my thirty seventh birthday. Today I want to tell her story, the pieces I remember, for reasons I can’t explain. She passed a part of herself to my mom by teaching her to cook, the warmth of her history cuddles the belly of my own daughter even though they never met.
When we visited India in the summertime, my father would stay up until 2:00 a.m. in the morning and talk with her about his life in Texas, while she laughed, entertained by the adventures my mom and he shared. They had a place where these conversations took place, a huge light blue and green plaid hammock, a source of both happiness and sadness for me. My mom’s aunt asked me to sit on that hammock, but as I would get comfortable in the lull of the swing, my uncle would push me from behind, the high swing interrupting the tranquility of my breath. I’ve never liked the swinging feeling, the back and forth motion causing a tornado in my stomach.
Even now, as much as I want to, when I close my eyes, I’m uncomfortable with the swing between life and death. It’s the knowledge that behind the sweet kisses I bestow on my daughter’ s cheek, the bear hugs I give my Mom, the coffee talks with my sister, and the late night movies with my husband, the swing will eventually move in the opposite direction. The grasp of unexpected sadness is always in the background. It’s the swing, I tell you. The movement between the highs and lows of life will not allow me to relax in the present.
From my vantage point, the footprints of death always track mud, as much as I want to wash the remnants away, I cannot. Its impression is permanent, but yesterday, after hearing the news of her passing, I didn’t cry, but calm enveloped me. My mom’s aunt was 87 years old and for the last few years, her health was deteriorating, being jailed in her bed, unable to use the bathroom or walk. She wanted to escape the clenched fist of life. It reminded me of the final days of my own father, also confined to a bed, unable to bathe, eat, walk or experience with his own volition. He longed for a reprieve, much like my mother’s aunt.
Yesterday, for the first time, I was struck by the neutrality of the swing, the lull of the hammock and the realization that there can be some goodness in death.
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Do you feel comfortable in complete happiness? Do you anticipate sadness? Have you ever experienced the goodness in death?
Image by jeffk via Creative Commons Flickr
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
Rudri this post is amazing. You exactly describe the breath-catching, stomach-sickening moment when you remember the swing will go the other way.
I’m sorry it was inspired, though, by the death of your Aunt. Condolences to your family..
I’m so sorry to hear about your aunt. To be wholly dependant on others, to have lost personal dignity and to be confined to bed is pure misery so to be trapped like that, with no reprieve, is miserable. To be old, infirm and in pain with no possible reprieve is miserable. I’ve experienced all of this, partly from my own illness and partly from losing relatives. Yes, sometimes death must be a blessed relief.
I had an awful three-year period during which I lost my mother, my father, my aunt and my uncle (all experiencing some of the above) and sadly it made me forever aware of that swing. I wish it wasn’t so.
My condolences to your family.
I am sorry for your loss. You said it well. I believe life is great living when we have our dignity . Once we lose that we longer have the desire to go on. Condolences to your family.
Beautiful post. I think your aunt would be very proud and moved.
This is so well-written. I love your comparison of “the swing” and life here/beyond. I’m glad she’s at peace now.
There is goodness in death. It’s a celebration of a life well lived most times (not all times).
I am sorry to hear about your aunt.
Rudri,
This is powerful and heart wrenching. I am sorry for your loss.
Susan
“It’s the swing, I tell you. The movement between the highs and lows of life will not allow me to relax in the present.From my vantage point, the footprints of death always track mud, as much as I want to wash the remnants away, I cannot.” Beautifully stated. It difficult to learn to live in the moment without worrying about the future.
Ru- Simply stunning piece. Thank you for sharing your words with us. I am proud to have “known” you back in writing class. Your writing has inspired me to keep going. I am sorry for your loss.
I think if you have lived a long and good life, happy and independent as your aunt did, then when you get sick, reliant upon others, always in pain then death must come as a relief.
I think for all of us the feeling of panic which you describe so very well with your description of the swing, that comes from thinking about death is the finality of it. Never waking up again on this earth, never seeing those you love again, doing the things you like to do, appreciating the beauty of this earth.
Yet, I also think to myself, wouldn’t it be awful if there was no inevitable death, that we lived forever and ever, no end to life. Somehow for me then there would be no purpose, no reason to grasp every opportunity, enjoy the here and now because I’d have all the time in the world ahead of me.
A beautiful post – your aunt would be so very proud and happy to read this.
I am sorry for your loss, Rudri. But this story is lovely. This piece of your history. And the grace which you express in telling it.
It’s funny how life’s swing can be both good and bad, both a reason to breathe a sigh of relief and a reason for tears. I’m thinking of your family today, Rudri.
Such a beauty, Rudri. My great-aunt, too, wanted fiercely to escape the “clenched fist of life.” Reading this helps me replace the pain of losing her presence with the bittersweet happiness that she is free from the pain of sickness and disease.
Beautifully written. Most likely one of my favorite posts.
I know that not only Vinu Mai would be proud, but so would Dad.
Here’s hoping that writing this “piece” has allowed you to find some peace. Remember that even on a swing, there’s always a moment in which all is balanced between the highs and lows.
Seek to find this moment.
Thank you for writing this.
“The swing between life and death” — a beautiful sentiment that isn’t as black and white as it may sound.
I have lost loved ones before but nothing has made me so acutely aware of how imminent death is as having become a mother. The fear of loss is always there, looming.
When there is much physical suffering and pain involved, death does seem to be a good thing.
I am so sorry for your loss. I don’t even need to know you or your great aunt to know that she would be very touched, moved and proud of your words here.
Death is always harder on the ones left behind.
Rudri, I am sorry for your loss. I know this swing all to well. Every sweet embrace, kiss and laughter with a loved one is often followed by a shadow, and I have an irrational fear of it. I hope your mom’s aunt will rest in peace, having not succumbed to the darkness but rather, to the light.
Rudri, I am so sorry for your loss. Again, the swing metaphor was a powerful way to express how you are feeling. I wish you peace.
Too often, the footprints of deaths close to me track mud, too. But I have seen the goodness of passing, when it offers reprieve. It depends so much on the quality of life and how much life’s been lived. It’s very, very hard for me to find peace when so much has been left undone and lost.
Beautiful, beautiful post. Condolences to you and your family.
I re-read your post again. Thank you for sharing, for your moving, insightful words.