Lessons in Loss

When I was young, we spent most of my childhood up north at my Great-Grandmother’s house. My parents visited often, driving the five hours sometimes every other weekend. She was a tiny woman, who’d be waiting on the front porch of her gray house as we’d drive up. For some reason, I was the grandchild always allowed to sleep with her. Her room was the smallest bedroom in the house, and she had a full size bed piled with quilts that she’d made herself. It was the warmest and most comfortable spot in the house.


Every morning she’d wake at 4:30 to make a homemade breakfast for everyone. I’d crawl out of bed with her and peer over the counter as she mixed the flour, the Crisco, and milk to make homemade biscuits each morning. She’d put them in the oven and the smell would waft through the house until others would begin to rise at the warm smell of fresh biscuits.

But in the time that it took for her to mix and scoop out the biscuits I had her to myself, and I felt special, as if I was different from the others who’d sleep late.

When I was in second grade, she died. It shouldn’t have been surprising since she was ninety-one, but at seven I didn’t expect to lose anyone or fathom what that would mean.

In a town where you have to drive an hour to get to a grocery store, the wake is held inside the home. I was curious and wanted to see her, but I couldn’t bring myself to go near the casket. It didn’t seem right that she was in the corner of the living room, when I’d always seen her puttering around the kitchen or rocking in her rocker by the window near the fireplace. I escaped outside eventually with some cousins.

Seven was a long time ago, but I can remember standing on the cement walkway looking up at my cousin Christy, who was only a year younger than me. I’d come outside unable to watch anymore tears of the family that had been so close to her.

My cousin Christy’s eyes had scrunched up as she had a way of doing and exclaimed in her six year old screech, “You’re not going to cry, too.”

I swallowed my tears, feeling them fall on the inside instead. My great-grandmother was the first person who I was close to that had died, and I felt as if crying was wrong.

We continued to go up North to her house, visiting less frequently, but still returning often. The rooms would be filled with cousins and aunts and uncles, a house full. My parents slept in her room, and I never returned to that bed.

The house would wake to the smell of breakfast now made by my mom and aunts. I’d lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to make sure everyone else was awake. Sometimes I’d wait until someone was sent to wake me up before crawling out of bed.

The little woman who always had a smile wasn’t there when I’d make my way into the kitchen after nine. Waking up early had lost its magical quality, and I never did it willingly again.

It’s funny how loss changes us in small ways. In ways we are unable to understand at an young age, but a change that lasts a lifetime. I still don’t cry easily, not wanting anyone to see my tears. Words spoken by a six year old unintentionally changed how I handle grief. I still don’t wake up early, and the smell of biscuits still brings me back to that kitchen, peering over the counter watching the seamless motions of my great-grandmother working on her dough, putting her love for her family into each biscuit.