the mist

My grandmother Ann is going to be 86 years old this year. She is the oldest person in our family and she is the last one left from her family, and when I say her family, I mean that all of her six brothers are dead and, as far as I know, all of her sisters in law are dead too.

Grandma's parents are dead, her grandparents are long dead, and all her cousins are dead, even some of her cousin's children are dead. In the cast of Grandma's life, most characters have simply moved on to the other side. Grandma now is the sole rememberer. She is the key that links the family that once existed with the family that now exists. And Grandma was born in 1924, which doesn't sound like a very long time ago to me, but it was. She's a Coolidge baby. Think about it.

This month Grandma lost her sister-in-law, Aunt Helen. Grandma's family is fragmented. She had six brothers: Frank, John, Joe, Fred, Ken, and Bob. I knew John ("Popeye"), Ken, and Joe ("Father") the best. They were all these sort of pudgy, freckled masses of Irishness, but each one was different. Popeye could cuss like a sailor. Father was the picture of 19th century intellectualism, Ken was rough around the edges but fundamentally likeable guy.

And of their wives, I really only knew Helen. She was a nice woman. The last time, I saw her at my brother's wedding she gave me a kiss. She had been through hell by that point, was in bad shape, but still remembered me. And who was I to her? Her sister in law's grandson. But she knew who I was: and so the element of family was kept alive. Because who I am I to anyone else from that family? I could be sitting beside cousins from various branches at any airport or restaurant and not even know it. I am grateful for that kiss.

And now she is gone too. I get the feeling some time that we are drifting through a mist in life, that people walk through this mist with us for awhile and then we lose them, they slip into the shadows, and we never see them again. It seems frightening, but that's how it is. And Grandma keeps on walking forward, through the mist. All the people she has known, even those closest to her, like Helen, who was the same age as her, will slip into the mist. We can all say that we knew this person, but we can't see them anymore. The past becomes nothing but a shared dream.

Should I be lucky enough to live as long as Grandma or Aunt Helen, I'll see it too. All my aunts, all my uncles, all my cousins, all my friends, all my colleagues. We are headed in one direction. We are all going to die. Even those who live to be 110 years old will die. Obama babies will be born, and Coolidge babies will fade away. The only thing those of us who are still walking through the mist can do is remember them. By remembering them, we still hang on to them. If we forget them, then they are gone forever.