When my grandmother smiled at you, you felt as though no matter who you were, or what you’d done, she knew it, and despite it all, there could be nothing more delightful to her than the fact that you were before her.

“Where should we go on our next adventure?” she asked me one night, while giving me one of those smiles. 

So many of my happiest memories of discovery and adventure have been with my Muppa (as I called her). I remember standing by a stream, learning the names of the wildflowers and the dragonflies. I remember staring through our binoculars side-by-side, watching for flashes of indigo, ruby, gold, and purple: buntings, king fishers, wax wings, finches, and my favorite, the hummingbirds. I remember floating down rivers, fly rods in hand (she always caught the most). Or how she pressed herself up against the railing of that boat, giddy with delight every time a Humpback whale breached. 

But that night we were far from the ocean. And the hummingbirds had long since flown south. We were in Minnesota, and it was January. It was dark and I knew it was time to go home. It was time to let her sleep. But I didn’t want to go. 

We were in her apartment. And I was sitting beside her bed. She’d given me her hand to hold, and wisps of white hair to run to the fingers of my other hand through. We’d had a party that night beside her bed. We’d even donned costumes that evoked animals and the outdoors to bring her joy. But when the others began to leave, I lingered beside her bed with my brother, hoping for something I knew could never happen, but in its lack, at least for a few moments more, in whatever form. 

When she asked me, “Where should we go on our next adventure?” her eyes seemed so clear. She’d been on her back the entire night, but as she asked it, I imagined she sat almost upright. 

I squeezed her hand, and thought aloud: “There are so many places we need to see! Should we see the northern lights?” She was still smiling, but her body slumped back once more, her eyes began to cloud. She fell asleep before she could utter a reply.

When I came back in the morning, we smiled at each other again, trying to hold each other’s gaze. She could no longer move, she could no longer speak, but she could still smile. Of course. And that smile was enough to convey to me all I needed to know. 

~~~

“Where should we go on our next adventure?” those were her last words to me. 

In the aftermath of her death, and all that’s happened since, I haven’t wanted to think about her question, let alone look back on that week that she died. I’m thankful I was there, but “live in the moment” I thought. “There is no point in looking back.” “What’s gone is gone.” “Let go.” 

And yet, three weeks ago, it all came back to me while I was standing in line waiting to order a sandwich. The woman behind the counter asked me where I was from. When I told her that I was on this journey, she asked me what set me on the road. Without thinking, I said my grandmother, and I told her about the question Muppa had asked me before she died. As I said it, I felt my eyes moisten, and I feared I was about to cry. “In front of a stranger – how embarrassing!” I thought. I looked down. But when I looked up, I saw the woman’s eyes had grown glassy too. 

That was weeks ago now, which on this trip feels like years. And the place, in the middle of nowhere, is now hundreds of miles to the south. Yet, in my mind I keep returning to it and all that was set in motion, all that has been put astir since that day. Tears that I thought would never come have visited me often these last few weeks. Questions I’ve long put off have weighed heavily on my mind: “When you love someone, but they are gone, what can still be held? What must you let go? And after they are gone, and life’s adventures cannot help but continue to unfold, in what ways (if any) will she still accompany you on the ride?” 

~~~

Of course, these questions relate to more than just my grandmother. But as I’ve grappled with them, I’ve been learning the most as I think through them in terms of her.

And firstly, what I’ve discovered is that even though she is gone in her physical form, I can always hold onto and nurture my positive memories of her. I have done this both when I’m alone and when I’m with others, as I did with the woman behind the counter.

This tending to her memory has kept her close to me. And in that, I find it natural to see the world as it is emerging now through her eyes. I feel this most acutely when I see things I know she would have loved. In those moments, I no longer see the world as I would have before, but instead I stop, and imagine what she would have seen. In that, I feel both nostalgia for what came before (and what she taught me), and also gratitude for these new eyes which are helping me to understand my present in new ways. 

I’ve had this experience so many times on this trip. I’ve felt it when I watched the stars in the desert. I’ve felt it when I met a homeless man in San Francisco and I talked to him for some time. I’ve felt it when my body finally let go, and found a peace beyond understanding within an old growth redwood grove just yesterday. I’ve felt every time I see song birds in flight, their feathers all a-shimmer in the sun.

But I’m finding so much more too. On the road I’m seeing that not only can I remember someone when they are gone, and not only can I still see the nowwith their eyes, but when you deeply know someone, you never lose their voice. 

Though I probably would have viewed it as a sign of mental illness in the past, I still speak to her. I remember the first time I did it. I was driving down an empty highway in the desert after seeing Monument Valley. I felt an overwhelming urge to speak to her, and tell her everything I had seen that day. I remember clearing my throat: “Ahem, uh…. I’m not sure if, uh… this is crazy --but … hello Muppa.” I have no idea if she can hear me from the other side of the void, or if I even believe in the eternal nature of our souls (at least in them in the ways I was taught). Yet, despite that all, I still talk to her, and in those moments I’ve often found her presence, her smile, and her voice as if she were still beside me.

But most profoundly, I’ve discovered I can still find her (and adventure together with her) when I choose to move away from the fears and ways I was, and instead choose to give expression to the values I most admired in her. 

When I smile with all my being at a stranger, a friend, or my family, I am with her. When I leave my phone behind and lose myself in nature, amid the flowers, the birds, and wild creatures, I am with her. When I am in the city, and I see a homeless man, and instead of running away, I speak to him, and buy his fresh cut mountain sage, I am with her. When I take a tour and give the guide a tip of 50%, I am with her. When I meet a stranger in a café and I treat them like my oldest friend, I am with her. When I sit with someone in tears, and do not try to fix him, but merely give him the space to grieve, and assurance that I deeply care - I am with her. When strangers I meet on the side of the road become dear friends, I am with her. When I wake up feeling overwhelmed with sadness, and instead of nurturing it I move toward gratitude for all that I have, and all that I can give, I am with her. When I give up my desire to be alone, and instead love my family, and let them see me as I am (not as I want to be), I am with her.

And so, yes, in so many ways she is forever gone. I must let go of my desire for it to be any other way. And yet, in a deeper way, I am coming to see that the lines between life and death, between those we love and ourselves, are not so clear-cut. Yes, her physical body is gone. But her blood still courses through my veins. Yes, her eyes no longer see. But my eyes can no longer help but see through hers. Yes, her voice can no longer be audibly heard, but I can always find it still. No, she can no longer smile at me or hold me in an embrace, but through the love she gave me, I find her when I do as she did before.

She is gone, irretrievably. But, so too, is she here. And forever on, she will always be here, both as she was and as she is still becoming – alongside, within, and through not only me, but equally so through my brother, my parents, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins, and all the people who she loved.

So, now in this deepening darkness, so far away from Minnesota, I find myself pausing and thinking back to that night five months ago. I see now you, Muppa. I think I finally understand what you meant. And I can’t help but ask aloud, “What adventure should we go on next?