each day / something that loves us

missing bestie

i’m missing my grandma tonight. i’m not quite sure who to share that with so i’ve decided to write to no one just as i did with the very first ankò e ankò. 

i’m missing my grandma tonight. i came home a bit earlier than i usually do after an unceasing headache pushed me to give up any attempts to work my brain. as i walked through the door of my bedroom, the lights still off, i started to cry. i started to cry like a fallen child immediately reacting to the pain of a new wound. i dumped my tote bags onto the bed, sunk to the floor, and sobbed quietly into the ends of my comforter. 

next to me sat a sort of altar / memory pile of things i inherited from my grandmother in the weeks before she transitioned and the weeks after. her giant cookie tin of threads she once sewed with (she was a skilled seamstress, she could simply look at an outfit then recreate it at home) books on natural medicine, and interesting esoterica. at the top of this pile is a beautiful pearlescent box decorated with seashells where my mementos of her live. 

as i waded deeper into my sobs, i found myself reaching for this box and for my phone’s flashlight to illuminate its insides. first, i pick up her reading glasses and feel a gush of tears pour out. i begin to remember every doctor’s appointment i helped get her ready for and how she would ask, sometimes in english sometimes in kreyol, where are my glasses? i remember how she would smile whenever i could find them. i remember how i would slide them onto her face at the very end of getting her dressed, a sign that she might make it to her appointment on time. my grandma was a libra with a virgo sharpness. i only say that because the glasses are cute yet reserved, a pair fit for a venusian, with a small patch of sparkly pink glitter on the sides. i remember how when we were done getting dressed she’d ask me if she looks ok and i would reassure her that she looked great and that she’s a super cute lady. she’s the grande dame. even if she felt at odds with how her looks had changed, hearing that always brought a smile to her face and we’d laugh together as i tried to shepherd her down the stairs. 

she hated doctor’s appointments. for whatever reason, i was the only one in her caregiving apparatus (aka my grandpa, my mom, and me) who could get her ready in time to leave with minimal resistance. with my grandfather, she’d fiercely protest. when my mother would call to motivate her, she’d ask why she has to go, pretend to capitulate, then go right back to doing anything but getting ready. with me, i’d put on a kompa mix and show her my dance moves and talk to her about things that brought levity to the stress of how life was unfolding for her. she’d get distracted from her protests and become entranced by the DJ dancing to his mix, laughing and exclaim “eh fou!” every time he started to whine. i would do whatever i could to make her laugh and keep her joking and focused on the feelings that made it a bit easier to be alive. i had learned that given the dementia, a playful attitude was most likely to succeed. before she knew it, she was dressed.

in the final week/week and a half of her life, in a room of family members saying their goodbyes, we danced together for the last time. this time she was frail, thin, and could no longer leave the bed. she was simply in pain. she started to say less and less and it became the new norm that she would simply listen to the room without too many words in response. but this time, the humorous flair of our latest guests filled the room with laughter and my grandma smiled and engaged as much as she could. eventually, my mom suggested that we put on a song that we always played for my grandma. this song and its many dance compilation videos became a tool to help combat my grandma’s boredom given that she couldn’t do a lot of the things she used to with the worsening dementia. yet, despite the disease, my grandma always remembered this song.

as the music began she started moving her arms up and down and she smiled and looked around the room. the look in her eyes—i’ll never forget it and i don’t know if i could even describe it. for the first time in ages, she looked like she was enjoying herself. she looked happy to be surrounded by love and she looked like she could really feel it. i note this because my grandma often expressed that her old age felt miserable and she lived with depression for the majority of her life. life was not necessarily an enjoyable experience for her a lot of the time. one of the main pieces of advice she gave me in her last year was to enjoy my life. “enjoy life baby, de jou a viv,” she’d say.

so when i saw her enjoying herself, despite all the pain i knew she was in and had been suffering through for so long, i walked across the room to dance with her. everyone’s laughter and voices boomed. as we danced, we held each other’s hand and i made sure to give it my all. i wanted to her to have so much fun! at some point, she said to the room, her voice quieter than everyone else’s, “sienna always does things to make me laugh” with a smile. she looked over at me with eyes full of love and squeezed my hand. i had never seen her look so content.

in some ways, maybe this dance was also a celebration. she had held firm for as long as she could and it was finally time for her to be freed from her toil. the lyrics of this song are similarly about a release from a place you are not meant to be, a release from suffering.

i’ll never forget those weeks. again and again, we said goodbye to each other and for that i am lucky. the intimacy of those moments are a gift that i have deep gratitude for. i tried my best not to cry during the beginning of these final few weeks because i wanted how she felt to be center stage. i mean being near-death and knowing it is a lot to process and i just wanted to offer my hand to hold and an ear to listen to all she had to say. maybe i wanted to be the kind of person that says “kenbe firm” with a pained look but waits to cry after all is said and done. i remember all the moments when i finally broke down and cried. in those moments i felt the weight of her exit set in, the finality of it all. in those moments we talked about how it was finally time for her to go. “pa kriye” she’d say softly with a smile as she wiped tears from my eyes. in those moments she rubbed my belly like i was a small child again and said goodbye to that child as well. in those moments she thanked me for never leaving her side. how could i?

i’ve said it before but my grandma was my first best friend. the majority of my childhood memories feature her. we spent so much time together. recently my mom called us “two peas in a pod.” i loved to be at her side, i loved to talk with her, i loved to joke with her, i loved to sit outside and enjoy the sun with her as she watched the tree tops for a breeze, i loved to show her the new rose blooms on the side of the house—i loved to hang out with my grandma. as a child, i loved to run errands with her, to come home and find that she was making my favorite afterschool snack (sweet plantains and hotdog slices), i loved to watch her cut mint leaves from the garden and bring them in to dry, i loved to watch her sew. as i got older, i loved to show her my artwork and hear her feedback; i loved to play her my songs, where i attempted to write lyrics in kreyol, and see her reaction. she was a welcome visitor of my precious inner worlds. 

i don’t know if she knew just how much she inspired me but i made sure to let her know. i always wanted her to know how much i loved her. i expressed it a lot. i cherish all of the times in our last years together that she replied to my expressions of love with a big smile and a litany of “i know you do, i know you really love your grandma” as though she were relishing all the affection i showered her with. or, at least, i hope she was relishing it. 

i love her totally. 

i’m missing my grandma tonight. i have a cold and that cold is what started all of this. i started to remember all the times i’ve been sick. so many of those times she was the one who cared for me. as i started to remember more, i looked over at my mom asleep on the couch and was reminded that, with her autoimmune disease, i care for her now. it was while caring for her that i got sick because she was sick. these days, i’m making the tea for the both of us. i missed the feeling of my grandma making me tea. i missed the added medicine of the her affection. i miss the sound of her voice calling me sweet pet names, ones i may never be called again. i thought about how i’ve been doing my best to adjust to her absence but sometimes it’s too obvious that there’s no replacement for her. i missed her presence down the hall, i missed the sanctuary created by simply going to her side and laughing with her. as i remembered that there’s no replacement, i remembered that our time together, at least in the way i knew her for the last 24 years, is done. 

life is truly fascinating. 

my destiny is intertwined with hers. there is so much potential energy i feel i’ve inherited to make kinetic. there is so much love she filled me up with that i am overflowing with expressions of that love. there are so many interesting little synchronicities. one etymology of her name means “dedication to dionysus” and before i learned this, i had committed to making my life a dionysian altar. many of the books she allowed me to have in her final weeks of life are almost eerily aligned with the path that i find myself on. many are books on topics i wouldn’t have expected her to have explored. she was a curious and magical dame. before i left for college she wrote me a letter that tells me to make sure i focus. she guides my focus. our relationship carries on in all these other ways. but tonight i am wanting to hug her and sit by her side. it wouldn’t hurt to drink a cup of her tea either. 

࿐ೃ˙𖦹࿐ೃ˙𖦹

avèk tout kè m [with all my heart]
sienna

[the title of this newsletter is an excerpt from a Lucille Clifton poem]

(high school era pic of me & bestie)