to sandra

an essay about life, death, and the honor of feeling seen.

Two weeks ago, someone died who meant a great deal to me and my family. Her name was Sandra. She was my unofficial third grandmother. We weren’t related, but she was one of us. Blood is thicker than water, but a shared affinity for To Kill A Mockingbird is stronger still.

She was a titan of warmth and encouragement. When she looked at you, you felt she really saw you. It was like she peered beneath your skin and right into your soul, and she loved what she saw in there. My mom said it best, “There are some deaths that fade over time, but this one won’t be like that. We’ll always feel an absence.” After that conversation, I rummaged through my iPhone looking for pictures of Sandra and only found a few.

This led me to tell mom that she needed to let us take more pictures of her, no matter the hour of the day. We’d want those pictures someday. I’d rather have a hundred so-so pictures than two really good ones. In some cases, it’s actually quantity over quality, I guess.

Death is a part of life. I’ve encountered very little of it personally, but that changed a few weeks ago. We’re headed to the funeral today. It’s not going to be a sad affair, in every sense of the word it’ll be a celebration, but it’s ironic that someone who brought so much buoyant energy into our lives won’t be attending because she’s not here anymore.

Although, knowing Sandra, I wouldn’t be surprised if she asked to peek in on it all. In the same way she seemed to see into us, I think she’ll be able to find a way to see in that service. I hope she likes what she sees.