When my grandmother was my age, 49, the year was 1972. I was not yet born, but my older brother Michael was.

My grandmother knew then that my dad had found and married my mom, someone who could love and be loved in return. She witnessed how happy a home they could make for their child, and eventually, my grandmother would witness the same happy home for my younger brother Drew and me, too.

It was not easy, but my grandmother had survived living through The Great Depression, sharecropping in Oklahoma, serving telegrams to soldiers in the Second World War, getting over heartbreak, and giving birth. She found love and security after her divorce. She enjoyed a modern family and genuinely shared her whole heart with all of us.

At 49 years old, my grandmother worked, was a wife, raised her youngest son, had grandchildren, and lived by the verse “love thy neighbor”. She always showed up for us kids, dear friends, and her 4-H family.

Without knowing it, at least she couldn’t have known, she wrote the playbook for me in case I would have the courage to listen to her wisdom and follow it. Who my grandmother was at 49 looks uncannily familiar to me. It is the map of her life that anchors me to hope for my own true happiness.

I will never be prepared for her to rest, though I realize she must eventually need–and of course, already deserves–a break.

So, it’s okay. All good, G-ma.

You are gone, now, but I can still hear your voice encouraging me.

You have been with me these 49 years.

And you always will be.

You have guided me this far.

Your voice guides me still.

I know how to move forward from here.

The way you have gone, I will now go.
The way you have lived, I will now live.
All people will be my people, and your God’s unfailing mercy will be my mercy.
May the Lord punish me ever so severely if anything
but death separates me from giving your lovingkindness to the world.

~Adapted from Ruth 1:16 & 17

Goodnight, Grandma

Goodnight, Grandma
and the Brownwood lagoon,
Goodnight Tanglewood and the California moon,

Goodnight Tiger, Goodnight 4-H,
Goodnight Cowboys and Thanksgiving plates,

Goodnight mint bushes, Goodnight birds,
Goodnight office with completed crosswords,

Goodnight Texas, and Oregon, too,
Goodnight Lone Star, my Red, White, and Blue,

Goodnight hymns and Nat King Cole,
Goodnight peanut brittle and beans eaten cold,

Goodnight phone calls at 1 AM,
Are you still up? Sure, Honey–you?

Goodnight bluebonnets, butterflies, and bees,
Goodnight hot tea, less sugar than me,

Goodnight to rescues from life’s big scares,
Goodnight, dear Grandma, now, you take care.

Goodnight Snow Goose, Goodnight spoons,
Goodnight, sweet Grandma, I’ll see you soon.

Today would be better because I’ll suffer less,
cry less seeing the date on the calendar once every four years
like a less frequent blood moon
or a high tide that catches the sea cucumber off guard
leaving him exposed to science teachers who mean well
who go to the shore with their students
for a historic poke and prod of a hardly-ever-to-be-seen event
or a string of beads that pops
all over the floor after class when a pile of books in hand catches the thread
and down, down, down they go
like a whirlpool stirred up with floodwaters no one thought would spill
over well-built levies that were tested to withhold
even more pressure than what nature forced
on unsuspecting residents beside themselves, beside the fast current
taking away their lives and livelihoods before their very eyes,
but it really is less like that because,
other than the even years divisible by 400,
every four years that day will come
with calculated predictability and immeasurable unpredictability,
so maybe instead of sadly mourning each year a little less
the stored grief floods, the fragile security then exposes
all the raw uncertainty left throbbing, gasping, and reaching
in the naked beach where the waters recede
further and further away into the depths beyond the beyond.

Inauguration Day, the White House now
Is filled with smiles along the steps
And stands amidst the sky ablaze
With sparkling brilliance, smoking haze

Now, of the years before and then
A moment not to come again
And see from where the girls will rise
It takes just one to start a trend

And since to look ahead in time
Infinite dreams are born tonight
About the world, our hopes unite
To see the promise of our nation’s light.

Inspired by…

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.^[25]

—by A.E. Housman from A Shropshire Lad: “Loveliest of trees, the cherry now”

Tomorrow
Wake slowly.
Drive slowly.
Wait even more slowly.

Vote quickly.
Drive quickly.
Eat quickly.
Today

Rest without a care to be had
Warmth beyond measure
Depth of the deepest blue

Peace before pleasure

Softly I go to dreams ago

Swiftly I speak to them

Gently they whisper calm to me

Fondly I too remember it

Bring me again a song

Sing me again a melody

Rock me again to sleep

Perfect nocturnal tranquility

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