Jean M Young

Hello. Thank you all for being here and joining our family in what is bound to be one of the most challenging moments we will collectively experience. But also, thank you for joining us, not

only in our despair and heartache, but in celebration of my grandmother, Jean Young. It seems almost silly that death can ever come as a surprise when it is such a determined and universal

truth we must all face, but this will feel unfair for a while. In our common grief, from those of us closest to her to those who have endured distance, we have all lost a mother, grandmother, sister, and friend in this defeat. What a testament to her extraordinary reach. What’s left of us in the

world we leave behind are the memories our loved ones hold on to. And if we measure a life in memories, Grandma will live on in perpetuity.

When I think of Grandma and how I might begin to justly capture her core in any language, I think of Maya Angelou’s poignant message. She said,

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

What magic it is to make people feel. Grandma was full of magic.

For anyone in this room who was lucky enough to meet Grandma, even once, you know how

special it was to be around her. She had this way of lighting up for everyone. A special spark for each of us, but one recognizable by all. She’d smile big, maybe call your name out of excitement that you were visiting her, and she probably had a job that she had saved just for you. Maybe it was changing her curtains, or looking through one of her many cabinets for something extremely specific. But she saved it for you.

I think most of these times, we felt confused or exasperated by her allegiance to her plan, to her own mind. But in the end, that’s what made her, her. And the strength of her mind is what fueled her when her body began to wilt. We now know how much that mind brightened our lives, as we stumble in this darkness.

When someone leaves us, there’s this desire to canonize their memory. To leave out the parts that others might not understand. But I think to do so here would be a disservice to Grandma’s memory, because it was her stubbornness, her mischievous and at-times, both child-like and

surprisingly impolite humor that I want to hold on to most.

Grandma taught us how to celebrate. With music. And food. And sweets. Lots of sweets. She

had the ultimate sweet tooth. She gave Alex and I our first tastes of beer and vodka-cran-orange from a quick dip with her pointer. It was our little secret. We spent every Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and everything in between with her. I’m so glad I’ve saved all of my New Years singles from her to wish me prosperity and wealth in the futures to follow. I bet some of you were gifted those signed singles worth far more than their currency in paper now. Hold on to them.

She taught us how to cook. With seasoning. Shadow benny, fresh garlic, herbs, honey. No written recipes, just taste til you get it right. Roasted lamb, fresh bread, sorrel, corned beef and cabbage, baked macaroni, perfectly cooked rice and peas. You managed to give us flavors that we could

feel. The best food is baked with love.

She taught us how to host. From when I was very young, Grandma always told me I’d grow up to be a socialite. (She was right, of course). Cheese and crackers, fancy napkins, and the good glasses to make your guests feel at home. I make sure to keep this in mind whenever I have

company.

She taught us how to clean. Boy, did she teach us how to clean. She once cleaned herself onto

her refrigerator, fixated so hard on the walls that she got stuck up there, waiting to be rescued by Anti Ahai. Something was always in need of fixing. She’d know if one of her picture frames was angled the wrong way or if her vase was off center. We’d roll our eyes, but she was always right.

The greatest lesson Grandma taught us, was how to love. Both ourselves, and others. I know how to take care of myself, the importance of keeping my cuticles cut and hair brushed because she

kept her cuticles cut and hair brushed. She was the very essence of beautyand grace. A tilt of the head, closed eyes, and raised eyebrows to let us know she knew she looked good. Always poised and proper; a nod to her British upbringing. Because of her, many of us know the difference

between the ground and the floor, we know not to stretch at the table or whistle in the house. And we know what a world of difference the tight squeeze of someone’s hand, or setting aside

leftovers, can make to remind someone how much they are loved. Though her compassion and care sometimes looked different from storybooks and fairytales, she made sure we all knew at our core that her love for us was boundless. She shared her magic with us.

Our last day together was so special. The first thing she said that day, right out of her sleep, was, ‘Gab!?’ to which I immediately replied, ‘yeah?’. I went over to her bedside so she could see me. And in her sleepy, quiet voice she said. ‘Fix the curtain just there.’ I turned around, and saw that the curtain was in fact misaligned, and giving us a small peek into the room next door. ‘You got it lady.’ We laughed about her dentures which I was completely unable to tuck back into place after taking them out for a brush. So we giggled, and we gave up, and we rested. I’ll never be

able to express how lucky I feel that I was able to spend that day with you, before you drifted into the winds around me.

I’ve never known a world without her, so how can I be prepared for what is to come? In most moments over these last few days, it simply feels like the world might cease altogether to sleep alongside her. I keep waiting for time to stop, so we don’t have to know this new world. Because when a giant tree falls, at first it's loud and disruptive and scary. The creatures who’d made a

home in its roots and vines feel displaced. And broken. But I know that eventually, a day comes where new life springs from what has fallen. In no clear or linear fashion, but unquestionably,

new life will spring.

And so, in your spirit and honor, we promise to move forward with grace in moments of conflict. To move forward with an open heart in times of hate. To forgive those who have wronged us. To laugh loudly and with our belly, because all you ever wanted was for the echoes of our joy to carry in your home. We promise to spend more time with one another, listening to each other.

And we promise to care fiercely and openly for the ones that we love. We promise to keep sharing your magic.

Your granddaughter, Gab

Written by: Gabriella Rodriguez