My grandmother, Margaret ‘Peggy’ Ritter, doing what she loved.
Sometimes time must pass before you can look back on something and see it against the sky. Writing forces that very act. Looking back. My grandmother’s funeral was brushed with the grace of time. It was a celebration of her life. Had we come together too soon, the word celebration might have felt insensitive, even stinging, as it hit the raw pain of grief. But now, months later, in the space of looking back to find the words, music, pictures, and paint shades to honor her – the word celebration gave us permission. Many would speak that day about my grandmother’s love of music. How she went to Juilliard and how the piano was at the heart of 100 years well-lived. Her four daughters each chose a love of hers and wove stories of memory and gratitude for loves passed on. Gentle lullabies that lulled an anxious child to sleep, books that opened new worlds, art that inspired, family, laughter, friendship…Her, and now their gifts, were many.
My gift would be a poem, but it would need a bit of introducing. Tenderness deserves an introduction, I figured. But at the heart of it, I wanted to hold on to that moment with her. I wanted the world to know what I had noticed.
…as a child, you could often find me in her bedroom when the world felt too noisy for me. I was, am, sensitive. She was, is, too.
Somehow, she always knew when I was back there. I know now that it is because she was a noticer. She wouldn’t come rushing back straight away. She likely knew to give me space. But somehow, at just around the time when tears might start to push through, she would appear. “Are you okay, luvie?” she would say. I’m not sure if she always said it out loud. But I heard it and felt it every time.
We all have our stories of Nanny’s sensitive moments. She also tucked away in back rooms from time to time. Those afternoon naps. It wasn’t always Nanny coming to check in on me. I learned to wait a few minutes as she had always done. I learned to say “Are you okay, luvie” without words. I learned to speak from the heart.
Later, when I read my poem, I thought of her as the words took flight in and around the beauty in that room - the beauty of her life. With every word I wrote and spoke, I noticed that she was still with me.
And so, it will be. And so, it will be.
- Erin Frankel