Tomorrow is Thursday and it will have been two weeks since my grandma died. The days since her funeral truly feel like a blur as Holy Week has come and gone along with assorted illnesses in my family. Many details of the past two weeks float unattached to days or times. I know that I had dinner with my mom's cousin, randomly, but I have to stop to think exactly what day that would have been, working backward to affix it to a time within anything else. There were flights and well wishes and worship that in some senses blend together beautifully -- a triduum that flows in my memory without fits and starts.
There's still a lot of "stuff" in the farmhouse, some of it "stuff" with memories attached. When she moved to her apartment a few years ago, most of the actual things in the house went with her. What's left is random, of little value, and some is simply garbage -- empty jars and paper plates and magazines from the 1970s.
My family went out to the farmhouse during that nebulous time when I was home. My nieces climbed the steep steps and proclaimed them scary. Many of us shed tears there that we hadn't or didn't shed elsewhere. We poked around and opened closets and brushed away dead flies and breathed stale air.
I was alone for a moment or two in what had been her bedroom. In a dresser that was otherwise empty save the drawer liners, I found a color card -- one of those strips of colors from the hardware store to help you choose paint. The colors were reds and on the back were notations indicating amounts. I don't know completely why, but I slipped it into my pocket and now I carry it with me. I know that it was my grandmother's and that's enough. It's something to hold, to remember, to remind.