Grammy, meet Gramps.

Times be changing.

“Let the church say amen; let the church say amen; God has spoken; let the church say amen.”

I hate that song. They sang it at my grandmother’s funeral. It’s so final. Apropos for a funeral, I suppose. Still…I don’t like it.

It’s holiday time, and like most of of us, I’m reflecting on the year, now that it’s almost over. That includes family relationships, which always have their intricacies. I must say, things feel pretty good right now. My daughter and I are in a good place. My 2 year old granddaughter now addresses me as “Gramps” and/or “Grandma.” She remembers me, despite no longer seeing me daily following her mother’s relocation back to the East Coast earlier this year. And it got me thinking about love, and how memories play into it.

Grammy died in the summer of 2014, shortly after I moved to California. She was 91 and rapidly losing her battle with dementia; the last time I saw her, she was a shell of who I’d always known her to be, and I knew the next time I’d see her we’d be memorializing her. Like many grandmothers, she was the wheel that kept all the family spokes connected, and in the 10 years since her death, admittedly, we’ve all drifted, our visits becoming more sporadic despite active travel schedules to other places and faces, relying on texts, social media, and my mother’s love of “information sharing” to keep abreast of who’s doing what.

I recently visited my mother in South Carolina, who moved there 5 years ago to her newly built home on land Grammy left for her. It’s a beautiful, rural, vast area of the state with red clay dirt, deer, Trump signs, and churches. She’s much happier there than being in Brooklyn, widowed. My aunt’s house is just a bit down the road. And just beyond that, Grammy’s house. My grandfather still lives there; while not biological, they married before I was born and he’s who I’ve known in the role my entire life. He got remarried a few years ago to a lovely woman, and I’m glad he’s found companionship again. Going there now feels weird though. Grammy’s house had always been a safe haven of refrigerator magnets, butter pecan ice cream, and cans of Pepsi. And today, someone else’s pots are in the cabinets and clothes are in the closets. Time moves forward. We do too.

Now I’m a grandmother. And it’s an honor to be photographed in front of Grammy’s house, with my blonde extensions and open mesh leggings and Chuck Taylors, my granddaughter in my arms.

The church has indeed said amen.

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