Already There

Pineapple juice and Frank Sinatra and Meet Me in St. Louis.

I awoke this morning in a sleepy haze to the sound of my phone vibrating on the floor beneath me. I thought it was my alarm, but I realized it was my dad calling me. It was 6:47 am.

“Hi, honey, are you awake?” he asked. “I am now,” I said.

“This isn’t an easy thing to tell your daughter,” he started. I’m 26 years old, and my first thought was, Am I in trouble?

Earlier this morning, my grandmother, who had just turned 96 on Saturday, passed away. I’m shocked. Our family was together over the weekend to celebrate her birthday, and she was her usual merry self—cracking jokes and telling me about what books she’s reading and whispering about people who are 3 feet away. I had worn bright pink nail polish because I thought she would like it. It’s now chipped on my nails, but I can’t bring myself to take it off.

Throughout the day today, I haven’t stopped thinking about her. When I talked to my Aunt Madonna this morning, she said, “I think she was ready. She kept talking about funeral arrangements over the weekend. She kept talking about Grandpa. I think she just wanted to be with him.” We’ve always joked that my grandmother had God on speed dial, so I think she probably texted Him that she was ready to make the move.

I feel like I’ve lived several lives today. I didn’t really know what to do with myself this morning. I fully ironed a white button-down shirt and went to the office to pick up my laptop and some samples. And then I came home. And then I logged onto work because that’s what I thought I was supposed to be doing. But then I went to the grocery store because I didn’t have any food, and I saw packages of baklava in the baked goods aisle and started crying. (If Michelle Zauner is crying in H Mart, I’m crying in Morton-Williams.) I thought about my grandmother and about my Lebanese heritage and I wondered why I didn’t write down more of the Arabic she tried to teach me and I wondered why I didn’t pay more attention to her when she was making mujadara in her small kitchen and I wondered why I suddenly felt like I didn’t know anything about her. I racked my brain trying to think of things I know she loved and came up with pineapple juice, Frank Sinatra, and the movie Meet Me in St. Louis. I bought the pineapple juice and made a note to re-watch Meet Me in St. Louis today. I had already been listening to a ton of Sinatra in the last week. Something was telling me to.

She was one of a kind. I am who I am because of her. A social butterfly, she was well-liked in society and treated everyone with kindness. She loved to read. She loved to cook. She loved New York. She saw the good in every situation. She buried a child. She buried her husband. She had cancer—twice. And beat it—twice. Through all of this, she lived every day with optimism. She never complained and never wanted anyone to feel like there was more they could be doing for her. She was tough.

Even though she was seventy years older than me, she felt like my peer. She was always ahead of her time—she kept up. For lack of a better term, she could shoot the shit. She was “hip,” as my dad would describe her. Even though she was in her nineties, she never said she was old. She never even said she was getting old. A few months ago she told me, “you learn to accept the age that you are.” When she said that, I wrote it down. I’ve thought about it a lot recently—it’s something I’m trying to teach myself.

All day, I’ve tried to think of other things she said to me over the years. When I was nineteen, she told my dad about me, “She’s already there, David.” I know what she meant by ‘already there.’ I know she was proud of me and thought I was mature for my age. I think she saw a lot of herself in me, in the way that I love to read and write and mail letters and bake cakes and dress up and go to parties and do everything and talk to everyone. A few months ago she called me and asked if I was socializing enough. (In her words, “Are you a socialite?”) I told her she had nothing to worry about. I said, “Don’t worry, Grandma, I’m a party girl.” When I was promoted at my job in April, she was one of the first people I told. Her response was, “That’s wonderful! Do you have a boyfriend yet?” This didn’t bother me. She came from a different generation. Once you reach a certain age, you can say whatever you want and no one can get mad at you. She was funny.

I don’t know what the last thing she said to me on Saturday was. I do know that when my mom saw her on Sunday, she told my mom we need to make the spinach pies soon. So that’s what we’ll do.

As I’m sitting here with Meet Me in St. Louis on my TV in the background, I can see why my grandmother loved this movie. Toward the end of the movie, Judy Garland is consoling her crying sister before the family moves: “What’s amazing, Tootie, is we’re always going to be together. Just like we’ve always been. That’s what really counts—we could be happy anywhere as long as we’re together.” Whenever we left my grandmother, she would call the next day and say, “We had a wonderful time. It’s so good to be together.”

I see her in everything. She’s all around. I don’t have to worry about whether or not she made it to heaven—I know she’s already there.