I think that today, December 15, 2007, is the 20th anniversary of the death of my beautiful grandmother Celia Carnahan Burgio, my mother’s mother.
My mother always remembered the anniversary of everyone’s death. I always scolded her, and told her that was morbid. On the other hand, I don’t even remember anyone’s birthday. But I remember my grandma’s death because I had to travel to Buffalo from Mexico, just as the holiday craziness had started, in order to attend her funeral. It took days of sleeping in airports and being on standby flights. Prior to her death, I had spent every Christmas of my life at my grandma’s house.
Before this year, I had spent every Christmas of my life with my mom. Somewhere. In recent years she opted for warm, tropical locations, after a lifetime of Christmas’s in Buffalo. I guess I started thinking about my grandma’s death today because I know if my mom were alive, she would have made a big fuss about it, and I would have told her she was being foolish.
My mom died April 6, 2007. It was Good Friday. My dad died the Wednesday before Easter in 2004. Holy Week/Spring Break, whatever one calls it, will always be a haunting time for me.
Well dammit. All of the Christian holidays, (which are, after all, the predominant ones) have associations with death or people I love.
I miss you grandma. There is no one I associate with Christmas more than you, and I always feel you this time of year. Not your death, but your life. Your joy. Your festive nature. I still hear almost every almost every Christmas carol in your voice, no matter who is singing it.
I promise that I will take a little time to celebrate your life, and try to forget that I even remembered this anniversary of your death.
My mother always remembered the anniversary of everyone’s death. I always scolded her, and told her that was morbid. On the other hand, I don’t even remember anyone’s birthday. But I remember my grandma’s death because I had to travel to Buffalo from Mexico, just as the holiday craziness had started, in order to attend her funeral. It took days of sleeping in airports and being on standby flights. Prior to her death, I had spent every Christmas of my life at my grandma’s house.
Before this year, I had spent every Christmas of my life with my mom. Somewhere. In recent years she opted for warm, tropical locations, after a lifetime of Christmas’s in Buffalo. I guess I started thinking about my grandma’s death today because I know if my mom were alive, she would have made a big fuss about it, and I would have told her she was being foolish.
My mom died April 6, 2007. It was Good Friday. My dad died the Wednesday before Easter in 2004. Holy Week/Spring Break, whatever one calls it, will always be a haunting time for me.
Well dammit. All of the Christian holidays, (which are, after all, the predominant ones) have associations with death or people I love.
I miss you grandma. There is no one I associate with Christmas more than you, and I always feel you this time of year. Not your death, but your life. Your joy. Your festive nature. I still hear almost every almost every Christmas carol in your voice, no matter who is singing it.
I promise that I will take a little time to celebrate your life, and try to forget that I even remembered this anniversary of your death.
