Today is a funny day, emotionally, for me. It’s the anniversary of my Grandma passing away. When she first passed away, five years ago now, my mom always said “May Day is a sad, but beautiful day, Grandma’s gone but the sun is still shining.” That’s just who my mom is; intrinsically hopeful, grounded in truth, and triumphantly joyful. I am in such a different place today than I was five years ago. All the things that seem crazy in life right now, did not even remotely exist then. And all the worries that I had then, do not even remotely exist now. It’s amazing how we grow.
To really understand my Grandma, it is important to say that she was a part of a pair. The way that her and my Grandpa lived, and loved, each other every day was something out of a story. My Grandparents were simply amazing. Growing up next door to them for that matter, was for lack of a better word, amazing. With them both gone now, it can sometimes be hard to reflect on their lives because of the pain that comes from lose. Yet, they gifted a love that was so receivable, filled with both passionate and power, and that is just something that never really leaves you, no matter how many years pass.
Some of me really remembers her as perfect. One of the sweeter things was that she loved to tell me stories. As a little girl I can so vividly remember sitting on her floral yellow couch reading books like Corduroy, Stop That Ball, and I’ll Love You Forever; all my favorite childhood books. She loved to read. I think she ultimately taught me how to read, and how to love a good story. Grandma’s voice was soft and gentle, but always so expressive. She was the best storyteller there was. I would always sit on the left side, I don’t know why I remember that, but that’s just always how it was. Grandpa would sit in his lazy boy next to us, and turn the golf channel on mute so he could simultaneously watch golf, while still listening to his girls reading.
My favorite story that she would tell me, was about her and her sisters, and how they got their names. Her mother (my great Grandma) was the person that everyone loved. She was always happy, and kindness poured from the deepest parts of her being. Clearly nothing changed from my Grandma, or my mother, and I’m praying that something about that joy is genetic. She had three sisters. And all their names were some rendition of “happy.” Grandma always said that her parents did that because there was very little joy in anything else but family in those times. Mary, Bonnie, Gay (grandma) and Sunny. Talk about joy. Today as I run through story after story about grandma, reminisce on her beauty, I think about our names, our very identity. For her it was a hard fact of reality that her name meant was joy. it was rooted in joy. But what about me. Allyson, nowhere in the dictionary does that mean happy or joyful, but what if I just made it that way. What if my very name was rooted so deeply in joy that it became my definition, my Story.
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