Grandma Ruth

Grandma Ruth was my stepfather's mother and a sweet, devout, modest woman.  She was a daughter of sturdy mormon pioneers. She worked for years on the first floor of the Daughters of Utah Pioneers Museum, her desk tucked in a corner next to an old mantal and beneath an oversized antique painting of Joseph Smith. She loved a yappy dog for thirteen years, named Clementine, who died more than a decade ago but whom she referred to continuously in her final year of life. On occasion she would call me in Florida and marvel at how much I had moved and travelled. I tried to see her one last time to say goodbye this fall, booked a ticket to Salt Lake City and she was already gone. I always liked the way my stepfather talked about her, and to her. There was a kindness about her even if she was simple. She married once and lost, and lived the rest of her life single.  She was a quiet presence in my life, even if not physically, I always felt her in the world.  Her leaving has been a reminder to me about death, that thing that once pummeled me but for the most part has just flicked me in the eye once in a while.  I have lost family members over the years to anger,  to prison time, to broken and unrepairable trust. To grieve someone who lives really is a terrible thing.  But to lay someone down to death is a natural experience, one of loss and it's finality a reminder that life is a gift, that love is all tied up in it's string.