All Saints: Culture. Inheritance. Chair.

Grandma,

I'm sitting in your chair.

The chair you made a coverslip for

when the velvety sky blue was worm

and out of date.

Now covered in a pattern that

screams your name,

Ethel Violet Oie.

The chair in which you sat

and drank your barley green...

that smelly drink that kept you

healthy for so long,

that kept you ahead of the

organic, natural, whole-food curve.

The chair in which you watched

the fish swim back and forth,

back and forth, up and down,

with all of their movement, dynamism,

and flow.

The chair in which your

body deteriorated

from the cancer that took over

your body.

I look at this chair every day and think of you...

think of your smiling face,

your big hands and crooked fingers

worn from a long, grief-filled,

and joyous, G-d infused life.

I think of the times we
played hide-and-seek,
watched Mary Poppins
or Peter Pan
over
and over
and over again.

I think of the times we
shucked corn and peas
on the back patio
on Crown Dr.
When Gracie was two
(and she thought she was nine).

I think of the times we
went to St. Marks
for Good Friday
and how when that stone rolled,
and the tomb shut,
and the lights dimmed...
how that memory shapes my
understanding
of one of the most solemn nights
of the year.
That night that
emotionally paralleled
what it felt like when you left this earth.

Your tomb shut and
the lights of life dimmed.

You were particular and fastidious,
traits that I only kind of inherited,
but that mom and Gracie
totally admit to.

You were kind and gentle,
qualities that I continue striving to
embody because they made you, you.

You were a woman of G-d,
whose beliefs probably
would have opposed mine
in a lot of ways and yet
we would always have agreed upon
G-d's infinite love
for G-d's people.

Grandma,
I'm sitting in your chair
writing my cultural narrative
for my CPE internship.
Thinking about the ways you
shape(d) my life.

Thanks be to G-d,
every day you
resurrect
for me in this chair.

I see you.
I feel you.
I hear you.
I miss you.

You would want it to become my chair.
But it will never be my chair.
It will always be your chair.

Because you are in it.
Every stitch. Every fiber.

And you resurrect for me.
Every. single. day.

What more could I have asked for?
You are a saint.
And this is legacy.

Love,
Emily