She was the best

Aida Marroquin Gardner: 1912-2015

My grandmother died on Saturday night. No pain, ambulatory until the day before, fell asleep in front of the Christmas tree, never really woke up. There are worse ways to go. Like, almost every other way.

I’m writing a short speech for the memorial service and while I could tell dozens of stories about her charm, quirks, strength, stubbornness, unnerving intuition, and unwavering devotion to family and friends, I keep thinking about how she blossomed in her 90s.

My grandfather died in 2002 and people worried my grandmother might quickly follow him, as partners in long-married couples sometimes do. Au contraire! They’d been devoted to each other, but he was a towering figure and it was as if she saw a fleeting chance to move out from under his substantial shadow and be more completely herself -- lively, sociable, game -- and she went for it. She had just turned 90.

94?

99th birthday party?

Amazing the light and vitality I see in those pictures from her 90s. My bookish grandfather disliked parties, to put it mildly. My grandmother loved parties and there she is at 92, 96, 99 sparkling at party after party, the last guest standing, dressed like a doll, making up for lost time. I have pictures of her eating “Abyssinian” food in obscure South Bay restaurants with me, photos of her hanging out in my kitchen letting Owen entertain her with his antics (he never found a better audience), shots of her batting around balloons with her great grandchildren. Both my aunt and I noticed that she seemed to actually get smarter in the years right after my grandfather died. It was a true Indian summer. 

95?

That’s what I want to talk about at the memorial, but I'm not sure I can do it without making my lovely grandfather sound like a repressive ogre, which he wasn't. I don't want to imply that their marriage was stifling to her, also profoundly untrue. I'm not sure I can give this speech without short-changing my grandfather's role in her life. In all our lives. I just want to say, and maybe I can only say it here, that these last thirteen years with my grandmother were unexpected and beautiful. I saw her in a whole new light.

94?