flowers // an elegy

I was probably daydreaming when the call came to Miss Davidson's 4th grade classroom, my Nana (aka Mrs. Torpie) on the line, explaining that I was needed in the science lab. I remember my chest buzzing with excitement as I walked down the hall, knowing that I was in for a surprise, and feeling very, very special. 

When I arrived my Nana told me that we were going to plant a flower. I didn't understand why it was so urgent, why she needed to pull me out of class to plant a flower. It wasn't unlike Nana to find an opportunity to hangout while I was still at school, and it wasn't unlike her to plant flowers, but on this day the whole thing felt kind of random. 

We went out to the courtyard at Columbus Elementary School and she handed me a shovel. We needed to dig a hole for the bulb. It was the fall and she explained, in scientific terms, how it would bloom by spring. Finally she shed some light on the situation: we were planting the tulip for her mother, who had died on that day, far too young, (however many years) earlier. I was only 9 and I'm not sure I really understood death, or remembrance. I do remember wondering about it, often, and I remember this diligent process of planting the tulip feeling like a sort of answer to a question that I didn't have words for quite yet. She wasn't just showing me how to plant a flower. She was teaching me how to grieve. 

With young parents and a dad who struggled with addiction, my Nana was more than a grandparent. She really filled in as an extra primary caretaker. My family spent our first few years living in her house, and when we did move, we didn't go very far. Nana's house was always right around the corner. She was my ride, my afternoon tea companion, the first eyes on all of my writing. She was my dinner date, my advocate. She taught me how to drive. Together we watched the birds, we drank tea, we started a crochet club, we drank more tea. And when I was a teenager, we grieved the early death of my father, her son, by planting a butterfly bush, just 6 years after planting that tulip. 

My Nana is a rare kind of person: a mother, a teacher, a nana, but most of all a friend. There were times, especially in high school, when it felt like she was my only friend. And the remarkable thing is I know I'm just one of so many people who can also say that. She lived in kindness, and by living, she taught us what that word really means.

A few weeks ago I was packing for Ireland when I got the news from my Aunt Katie. Nana's cancer had advanced to the point that she could no longer tolerate treatment, and she would be sent home to Katie's on hospice. The next day I drove to Connecticut and we began diligently working on Nana's room. Again, there were flowers, but this time we weren't planting them. We were painting them. Everywhere. All kinds of beautiful flowers bloomed upon the pale blue wall. And then there were birds. And butterflies. And bees without wings we lovingly called bumbles. And a cat perched upon a wall fixture.

She came home from the hospital and we spent the next few days sitting by her bed, singing, reading Mary Oliver poems, kissing her head, brushing her iconic silver hair. We sat on the day bed a few feet away from her's and made prank calls while she "slept," rolling her head over from time to time and adding useful commentary like, "You can use my Amex," and "I enjoy these idiots." 

She liked knowing we were nearby and hearing us laugh. But then, there were these moments. A silence washed over us. She was sleeping, her head leaning toward the light, and she was truly smiling. I like to imagine my Dad and Uncle Roger and Poppop and her Mom and her Dad and her best friend Peggy were standing by her window with the bluebirds and the goldfinches and a big birthday cake, welcoming her home while we said our goodbyes.

Something I didn't know about dying is that as it approaches, the person's eyes begin to gaze inward, as if they're looking more deeply inside than out. I noticed this happening with Nana. While she was quite lucid and chatty in the mornings, she spent most of the rest of the day dreaming out the window,  not unlike I did in the 4th grade, both of us waiting for a call.

I don't know how I'm going to get on without my Nana. I'm so used to having her around. Just yesterday I went to FaceTime her. I typed her name into my phone, before realizing. 

Now I'm thinking about how she might show up on the other side of the curtain. With my dad  I've felt this sort of protection. I can feel his strong and stable wings like a shield, guarding my light from flicking out along the path. But Nana has always been more of a nurturer. So what will it be? Will she show up in a way that feels like a cup of tea in her kitchen after a hard day at school? Or walking the dogs around the block? A manicure to stop the crying? The softness of a newborn chick? Or will she show up in a way that feels like noticing something passing in the woods? That giddy pause, that hush. 

My Nana, the beloved science teacher, is every flower I see and every bird that passes by. She's every leaf that twirls down from it's branch and she's the nectar that nurtures the butterflies and the bumblebees. She was my favorite person in the world, but now she's no longer in it. That's going to take some time to wrap my head around. How she can at the same time be the Earth, and also leave it. 

But I'm trying to remember what she told me the last time I visited her earlier this summer. Out of nowhere, she told me that she sometimes can't believe how she's made it through the thick grief she's been faced with in this life. But then she puts one foot in front of the other. And she remembers that her mom would want her to be happy, and so she is. She made it sound easy, but I know that it wasn't. I know she really was that strong, and I can only hope I've inherited a fraction of that strength.

My Nana was so excited for my Ireland trip. So excited, that spent the last year talking about it to literally anyone who would listen. Earlier this summer, she gave me all of her sweaters, and we got to have one last fashion show in her bedroom with my Aunt Katie. And then, as I tearfully packed my suitcase (which was 90% nana), I picked up a note that was tucked in my desk drawer. It was the card that came with a bouquet of flowers Nana sent me last November. It read, "Dear Kiera, Congratulations on winning the Mitchell Scholarship. Love, Nana." 

My first day in Belfast wasn't what I dreamed it would be. I didn't step out into the city wide-eyed and grinning. I showed up and immediately collapsed into my bed, crying, and wanting things to be different. But then, slowly, I dried my eyes. I took the card out of my suitcase, and I put it in a wooden frame. And honestly, for a brief moment there, I even felt happy... or at least grateful. Grateful, of course, for this incredible experience, but most of all for my Nana, for teaching me to be kind, first to myself, and for teaching me how to grieve. 

Postlude:

Last night I joined Sunday family Zoom, a tradition started by Nana during Covid and now carried on by the rest of us. My Aunt Katie's little square showed her pulling bunches of flowers with long hanging roots from her trunk. She had taken them from my Nana's incredible garden and was planning to "throw them in the dirt" at her own house.

This inspired me to go to the Belfast Botanic Gardens today. It was the first bright and sunny day I've had so far in Belfast, and I had a really beautiful time :)