DEATH Poem: Her Middle Name Was Celeste, by Emalee Long

My grandmother died last night. The last grandparent I had. 102 years old- I feel like I only half knew her, the way children only partly see adults. I know these things. She kept her shoes in boxes. Heels in the utility room. The room where my now-gone brother put my arm in the vice on my grandfather’s tool table when I was eight. Where I hid a kitten, Precious, from her. Where she kept her plants. The room with the chalkboard. It was the dust and tools and cool basement air of childhood. Trapped in those tight metal arms, maybe that little girl stayed in that room, even though I left. I left her there. People leave. We leave ourselves.

I saw my grandmother as eternal and constant. She was like the moon who pulls the tides, the apples that fall from trees, the truths that never change. Steadfast, but not completely unwavering, not too harsh, her spirit moved and danced around the edges. The rosary was prayed every night, yes, but my stitches didn’t have to be in perfect little
lines. She liked things just so but had no set recipe for her vinegarettes. Shake in a jar, it will taste ne. Raspberry, mustard, balsamic, whatever.

My mother is like her. She always liked babies and small children the most, and she like them was made for the soft rosiness of childhood. Always struck by the beauty of the world, she traded her paints and pastels for cooking and laundry. She bleeds for life though, the swelling sun and how owers bloom from dirt. My aunt is like her, too, in coee and style. Knowledge is the world. That smooth skill of having perfected the process. My aunt said, “Red is a true neutral,” my grandmother said, “Gemstones should either complement or clash with the outt.” That is their sameness. Only women truly understand that a black and white world births the gray areas which make up life. My uncle and she are the same. They cherish the delicate textures and high quality of nice things made to last, always looking for niches of luxury to slip into as if they were little mice in a cheese shop.

Across all of them, I see the corners of how their eyes wrinkle when amused, especially if they half-disapprove of what you said. They all feel like mother of pearl, or abalone shell. There is an iridescence that is organic and clean. No one feels complicated, March 8th, 2024

even though they are complex. How could I ever make a stranger understand that she taught all of them why one should have bluebirds on the ceiling? She was the classic things- shortbread, hardwood oors, jonquils- that hold timeless comfort. She showed that the best foundations are modest and sentimental, but do not brag of that knowledge. She was too pious to be vain about that quality. Surely. No, I will never truly know who she was as an adult, that will always remain just out of reach, but she taught me to sew, polish silverware, and iron. She let me quietly explore her backyard as I searched for fairies under mushrooms and in the shadows where her violets grew. She never disturbed the tiny acorn tops lled with petals and pebbles- A Catholic who observed the rituals and rites of girlhood magic. She did believe girls should grow up. My mother did not. My aunt, well, she kept the magic regardless of growing up or not. My uncle was always where the world would feel safe and a little less heavy.

So, my grandmother may always be just past what I can understand, what my ngertips can reach, but she echoes in the people I see more clearly. Those echoes sing bright and ne like crystal wine glasses. Authentic, well made, and of high quality. She told me she didn’t want to be forgotten, she told me apple brandy was her favorite spirit, she told me she liked fairytales, too. She remembered Hansel and Gretel. I think of how a priest will say, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

…But we should remember that the ashes were from a re that kept us warm and led us home when night fell. The dust is not only earth lifted by the wind into the air and carried away but also the remnants of the stars in the heavens. It is the beauty of all existence.

We are echoes of the past that never begins or ends, we are her cells divided and shued and redealt—the creases of her eyes, the callouses of her hands. The stars have watched it all, and while departing leaves a space that feels unnatural, she left so much in everyone I love that the space feels less empty. She is less gone. My grandmother will
always linger in blackberry sodas, peace doves, blue couches, and camellia owers