The initial stages of grief are a time warp, a horrible pause. There are some feelings that defy language, some feelings that just are. Grief just is. 

I’ve been rushing between projects, finding things to do that help me remember my limbs. No reading or brain work – tactile things. Painting. Cooking. Cleaning. Yoga. Death makes me want to forget my body, but I resist. I am resisting death, though it does not go away. We only resist death until we can’t anymore. We grow around our grief pockets, creating souls that look like a maze in Pac-Man. Filled with ghosts that will eat us if we let them. 

In the early 1900s, a physician named Duncan MacDougall wanted to test whether the soul has weight. He conducted an experiment where he tried to measure the loss of mass the moment his test subjects died. The experiment was a flop. His sample size was too small, and the results weren’t consistent. One subject lost 21.3 grams. For some reason, even though other subjects also lost mass at time of death, when the results of the experiment were published, the 21 grams was what the media focused on. I’ve been told variations of this story over the years, and usually people can’t identify where they heard it. 

Even though it’s horseshit, I can’t help but feel comforted by the concept. That must be why the myth lives on. What would it mean if humans have some kind of essence that animates our bodies? If it does exist, then my Gran has become unbound. A hypothesized 21.3 grams, into the aether.

Gran was incredible at sewing. She made all of my dresses when I was young, each with a matching hair tie or headband. There was almost always lace. Lots of lace. Our placemats for special occasions were all handmade by her. Mom still has the Christmas placemats. They’re thin, but vibrant even though they’re old now. They are edged in lace. They are beautiful. 

When I was 11 years old, my friend Katie and I got really into sewing. We were especially drawn to accessories. Purses and scrunchies. I made a small rainbow purse that I wish I still had. Gran would send parcels from Ontario to Nova Scotia full of material scraps, all her leftover buttons, lace, ribbon. We looked forward to the haul every time. For a while, I became obsessed with buttons. Mom would take me to second hand stores on the weekends and I’d dig through their button bin, looking for treasure. I loved how the buttons came in sets, always tied together neatly and delicately with a fine piece of thread. Who tied them? Who sorted them, paired them up?

Gran used to visit us in the summer. Maybe she visited during other seasons, but for some reason I associate her with summer. Much like my mother, Gran loved the beach. I’m not sure if she passed that on to Mom, but in that way they are the same. In most other ways they are different, but they both love the beach. I love watching my mother at the beach. It’s like seeing an astronaut take off their suit. All monotony and care slips away in the presence of the ocean. A giant beating heart that reminds us we still have one. Sometimes Mom sits on her towel in total silence, eyes closed, a small smile on her lips. She doesn’t usually bring a blanket, just a towel. A towel is enough. I think my beach Mom is Mom as a little girl. Quiet, introspective, introverted, reflexive, sensitive, gentle. My Gran was the opposite of these things. 

Gran wasn’t very good at using words to express her feelings. It’s not like she never said “I love you” – she did. But there was never a “because” attached to it. She did not love by noticing. But she never missed birthdays, and always sent gifts and cards. When I was 13, I got really into tracksuits and brand names. My family didn’t have a lot of money, so Gran would get me all the Nike gear I wanted. She used to call and ask for details about my life that even I thought were boring. It was in her wanting to know that her love lived. 

Many years ago, Gran moved from her cottage by a lake to a long term care home. Her mobility declined and her body became frail. When she lived at the cottage, she would swim almost daily if the weather allowed. She had a dog that she loved. My Aunt Ginny took the dog, and she took on the responsibility of caring for Gran. Ginny is a nurse. She is retired now but, like everyone on my mother’s side of the family, she never stops moving. The Wilkins are all like this; there is almost too much electricity in their bodies. You can hear it crackling sometimes. I wonder how Ginny will rewire her circuit board now that Gran is gone.

Gran was a Smith first, not a Wilkins, and her energy left gradually but consistently. She spent the last decades of her life in the home. When I’d visit, I’d ask if she was taking part in activities, meeting new friends. Though she’d go to church services sometimes (for the music, she’d say), she preferred to stay in her room. As time went on her physical ailments prevented her from extended social interaction. If I was late for a visit, she’d get angry and mean with me. She started having more falls, ending up in the hospital. I would visit her there. Sometimes I would play Frank Sinatra for her on my phone, she’d ask about my job even though she didn’t understand what I do. Sometimes, when she was confused by drugs and trauma, she would yell at me. After a while, I stopped visiting. That is a ghost in my maze, now.

My mother once said that death is about those left behind. We are left with our regrets, our grief, our loss, our memories – good and bad. No person goes through life without hurting others, or being hurt. Pain is inevitable. Love is not; love is a choice. And love can sustain us, even through grief.