rebecca LANDO

Yesterday, my grandmother, Edith, died. My grandfather, Carl, died in February.

This is most like a tide breaking, if it is anything. My grandfather lived a very long time in remarkable good health, then died slowly at the age of 98. My grandmother declined slowly for several years before dying quickly yesterday morning a month before her 91st birthday. My grandfather died thinking he’d be the “one in every 100,000” Jewish men to make it past 100 (a figure he must have invented himself). For the last 8 months, my grandma was waiting to join him. A strange way to word it; atheism in my family stretches back at least to my grandparents, whose atheism was a kind of practicality: both denied the option of a funeral. But it is the word that makes the most sense: she stayed alive, fighting chronic heart and kidney failure, for years, so she could look after Grandpa. Until he died in February, she’d never lived alone; 70 years, I think, of togetherness can be a force more powerful than life.

It’s been a hard year and of course I will always miss them. I will miss them on my wedding day; I will miss them meeting my children, if I ever have any. But I have 27 years of memories and the lessons they taught me. My grandfather taught me to stand up for what I believe in; my grandmother taught me to know when to let go. 

Edith Mayle: 1919-2010
Carl Mayle:  1912-2010