I recently had the honor of helping my grandparents pack up their home of 30+ years as they moved into independent living housing. Specifically, my grandma and I tackled the main bedroom’s closet – and it was a job.
Clothes are emotional.
The smell of my grandparents’ closet is one I wish I could bottle up and keep forever.
The house is sold, and I’ll never step foot inside it again, but the smell of the closets will always stay with me.
The hall closet with the medicines and knick knacks and lotions.
The bedroom closet with the toys and the off season + dress clothes.
My grandma and I went through decades of clothes together. We knew we would be donating most of it and keeping some. It was a long and emotional process, as I watched my grandma’s reaction to different pieces of my grandpa’s clothing that I held up for a final decision.
I could see the memories flash through her mind.
69 years married to my grandpa, and a St. John’s Bay polo shirt for every one.
We made piles to keep, piles to donate, piles to give to someone in the family.
I found my grandpa’s soft denim shirt, and when they said I could keep it I was elated.
My new favorite item of clothing.
We were tired when we were done- having just made a dent in the process of moving.
There were so many emotions.
The night before, I had an unexpected spaghetti dinner with my grandparents.
I wasn’t planning to come for dinner, but since they lived right next to my parents, I popped in because my parents were planning to take my kids out and I didn’t want them to see me before they left and derail the whole thing. I planned to kill a few minutes and hang out with my grandparents down the street until the coast was clear and my parents’ house was empty.
When I got inside, I could tell the dinner time energy was beginning; it was 4:45 after all.
They had a glass Tupperware of frozen spaghetti. Looking at my grandma in her wheelchair and my grandpa in his walker, I wondered how they did this every night.
I got to work defrosting the spaghetti and getting the bagged salad out of the fridge.
I put portions in a bowl and my grandpa promptly put half back- their appetite isn’t what it used to be.
As I served them dinner, I swelled with pride internally. The honor to serve them in this way was a feeling I can barely describe. They cared for and have loved me all my life; what a privilege at 34 to be sprinkling Parmesan over their spaghetti on that Thursday night.
We sat down at the table and my grandpa prayed. I don’t like spaghetti, but I was thrilled to be there. It was one of those moments that as it was happening, you knew it would stay with you the rest of your life.
The three of us sat at their small round dining table, the table that now sits in my own kitchen after their move, and we began to eat.
It was quiet and I looked around the house.
Emotions came over me. The house was listed and being sold in a matter of days. I knew this was my goodbye.
The grandfather clock and the china cabinet.
The sunroom that was always 90 degrees.
I was 34 eating dinner with my grandparents, but then I was 6 years old opening presents in the corner of the living room by the Christmas tree.
I was 8 years old performing skits with my cousins for hours in the basement, crying when we had to leave.
I was 12 eating pumpkin pie and listening to Christmas music with fresh whipped cream on Thanksgiving night.
I was 15 years old, running from down the road and bursting into the house to tell them how my mom was ruining my life.
I was almost 35, having dinner in the house for the last time.
A lifetime of memories in the most comforting home I have ever known.
I sobbed and told them I wasn’t ready.
They assured me I was ready to say goodbye to the house and to them, and that this is what happens.
It’s natural.
It may be one of the most natural losses we can experience – the loss of a grand parent – but what their loss means for my family is anything but.
This may seem odd, writing this post while they are still alive – But the reality is, there isn’t much time left with them, and I want them to know what that night, eating spaghetti with them meant to me.
They are two of my biggest fans, in writing and in life, and saying goodbye to their home felt like a chapter of my life closing.
“It’s just the beginning,” my grandpa told me as I cried.
They have all eternity to look forward to, with their faithful Savior.
Dinner at my grandparents started a process of grief, and also opened a deep well of gratitude for the incredible life they have lived and shared with me.
That night will always be one of the most sacred nights with them; while I hope to have more at their new place, nothing will ever compare to the feeling of my grandparents’ house.
And every time I drive past it, I’ll remember spaghetti and tears and a beautiful goodbye.
Now, that round table sits in my dining room. Already with more abuse and crusted food and marker stains in a week than they probably had in 30 years. But as I homeschool my daughter and watch my son color and eat dinners with my family, I will think of them.
To my Grandparents. Love you both so much.
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