We All Grieve In Our Own Way
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: The title tells it all.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The title tells it all.
Life would be tragic if it weren’t funny. – Stephen Hawking
When I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house, I found my wife, Suzie, and her sisters, Bella and Rose, sitting at the kitchen table attempting to deal with the fact that their grandmother had just been struck and killed by a car on 163rd Street. Less than two hours earlier they’d been given the horrible news, and in the aftermath of the tragedy they were trying to console one another with stories about their time with the 84 year-old Sicilian immigrant they loved.
“Leave it to Nonni to walk to bingo instead of asking for a ride. Just like her, bad knees and all,” said Bella.
“She was always so independent. That’s one of the things I most admired about her,” added Rose.
“I think she was getting more stubborn with age when it came to doing things herself. She just wouldn’t let anyone tell her what to do. The only person she ever listened to was Nonno,” reflected my wife.
All three women sniffled and wiped tears from their bloodshot eyes.
“Can I do anything? How’s your mom taking it?” I asked.
“She just went to the funeral home,” answered Rose.
“We wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t let us,” said Bella.
“Kind of like her mom, huh?” I ventured.
“Too bad Daddy’s away. But he’ll be back early tomorrow,” offered Suzie.
“I just can’t believe Nonni’s gone,” mumbled Rose, suddenly smiling. “Remember when she did the boogie-woogie at your wedding? She had everyone in hysterics.”
“What about the crazy hats she made,” offered Suzie.
“Oh, God, the one with the tall daisy that looked like a palm tree,” recalled Bella.
All three sisters broke into laughter that was short lived when Rose let out a mournful sob.
“The police said she must have just eaten pizza because it was all over her dress and on the ground where the car hit her. Mom said she had a big supper before going off to bingo, too,” chuckled Bella. “Isn’t that so like Nonni? God, she was so funny.”
Why would she think that was something to wax nostalgic about . . . her grandmother being eviscerated, I thought, feeling nauseated by the image it conjured in my mind. Later I raised the subject with my wife, who didn’t seem to understand why I thought her sister’s observation peculiar.
“Well, jeez, Suzie. Think about it.”
“What . . .?”
“What? Like the car hitting your grandmother so hard that it knocked her guts out onto the street? That was something to feel warm and fuzzy about?”
“Well, that was . . .”
“Macabre . . . ghoulish, maybe?”
“You just don’t understand,” my wife replied.
And I never did.
When I arrived at my mother-in-law’s house, I found my wife, Suzie, and her sisters, Bella and Rose, sitting at the kitchen table attempting to deal with the fact that their grandmother had just been struck and killed by a car on 163rd Street. Less than two hours earlier they’d been given the horrible news, and in the aftermath of the tragedy they were trying to console one another with stories about their time with the 84 year-old Sicilian immigrant they loved.
“Leave it to Nonni to walk to bingo instead of asking for a ride. Just like her, bad knees and all,” said Bella.
“She was always so independent. That’s one of the things I most admired about her,” added Rose.
“I think she was getting more stubborn with age when it came to doing things herself. She just wouldn’t let anyone tell her what to do. The only person she ever listened to was Nonno,” reflected my wife.
All three women sniffled and wiped tears from their bloodshot eyes.
“Can I do anything? How’s your mom taking it?” I asked.
“She just went to the funeral home,” answered Rose.
“We wanted to go with her, but she wouldn’t let us,” said Bella.
“Kind of like her mom, huh?” I ventured.
“Too bad Daddy’s away. But he’ll be back early tomorrow,” offered Suzie.
“I just can’t believe Nonni’s gone,” mumbled Rose, suddenly smiling. “Remember when she did the boogie-woogie at your wedding? She had everyone in hysterics.”
“What about the crazy hats she made,” offered Suzie.
“Oh, God, the one with the tall daisy that looked like a palm tree,” recalled Bella.
All three sisters broke into laughter that was short lived when Rose let out a mournful sob.
“The police said she must have just eaten pizza because it was all over her dress and on the ground where the car hit her. Mom said she had a big supper before going off to bingo, too,” chuckled Bella. “Isn’t that so like Nonni? God, she was so funny.”
Why would she think that was something to wax nostalgic about . . . her grandmother being eviscerated, I thought, feeling nauseated by the image it conjured in my mind. Later I raised the subject with my wife, who didn’t seem to understand why I thought her sister’s observation peculiar.
“Well, jeez, Suzie. Think about it.”
“What . . .?”
“What? Like the car hitting your grandmother so hard that it knocked her guts out onto the street? That was something to feel warm and fuzzy about?”
“Well, that was . . .”
“Macabre . . . ghoulish, maybe?”
“You just don’t understand,” my wife replied.
And I never did.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com