My grandmother left us this weekend at the age of 93- off to join her husband in the great beyond, where’s he’s been waiting patiently for the last two years for her to show up and make his dinner, already.

Those of you that read my stuff regularly, and I like to pretend that you actually exist to keep myself warm on cold winter nights, may recall that I’ve written three increasingly depressing posts over the years about visiting them in Albany. Well- when I was thinking about what to write to pay tribute to her- I decided not to repost any of them. Instead, I chose to share the poem below. It was written a long time ago, before the low flame of longevity melted away the lives they built together like butter in a pan with nothing more to cook until there was only smoke and the lingering odor of what used to  be. Photos on the dresser of people she didn’t remember, social graces hard-wired like the muscle memory of top athletes- built up over decades of Hadassah luncheons. Even once she was in the “Memory Enhancement Center” at Daughters of Sarah, she could still, for a time, fix up her hair and makeup, pick out a handbag to go with her outfit and walk right the fuck out of the locked ward, smiling warmly at the unwary doctor who held the door open for her.

Along those lines, my wife and I were just remembering her last (and only) trip to see my parents in Albuquerque for her 85th birthday. My grandfather had chosen that inopportune moment to have a cardiac incident (always had to be the center of attention, that one) and was rushed to Albuquerque’s Heart Hospital (one of Albuquerque’s finest tourist destinations). We all staggered into the waiting room at 5 AM- haggard, exhausted- wearing sweatpants and PJ bottoms- proud of ourselves for just showing up. Until the elevator opened up and my grandmother came out in a smart tweed jacket with matching chapeau at a rakish angle, matching handbag, tasteful jewelery, hair and makeup fixed just-so like she was fresh from a Canasta game and not my grandfather’s bedside- and put us all to shame. Mic dropped- Gertrude Iselin.

Goodbye, Grandma. I won’t wish you a peaceful rest because I know you’d rather stay busy – forever potschking for the ones you loved. I know that when we see you again- wearing sweat pants and hospital gowns and looking like hell- you’ll be there to greet us-smart outfit, matching handbag, perfect makeup, ready with a sliver of cantaloupe or a perfectly cut half grapefruit, shimmering and pink with a tiny glaze of sugar on top. Until then- may your memory be for a blessing.

Tinkling Glass And Choo-Choo Trains

I would always come down the hall like a boulder, a monsoon,
a monster from a Japanese movie, stomping and clomping
leaving tinkling glass and crooked pictures in my wake.
Too loud, too big for the delicate order of the house.

And then, at dinner, she knows what everyone should eat,
pink meat for Heather, not that much for Peter, “Ronni, eat something”,
“Ralph, that’s enough.”

Breakfast always starts with the perfectly cut half moon of melon,
or half grapefruit, English muffin and toast arranged on the plate
like the furniture in the living room we rarely sat in.
Love is in the details of her perfection.

He is full off exotic place names,
Idaho, Onienta, Mechanicsville,
and then there are the characters,
Bunty Carabunty and Blackfeet Indians,
always dapper and off to the store,
always showing off new gadgets.
The compass in the car full of mysterious fluid,
the radar detector, so he could slow down from 40 to 30,
the keyboard, the computer, the Internet.
You can measure the years by his toys.

He reaches into his pocket to reward the Afikoman finder,
and pulls out a dollar,
“Big spender” she says.
“I hope his intentions are honorable” I say,
“Oh, the’re honorable, boy are they honorable” she says.

The DJ asks, “so what’s the secret to staying together as long as you have”
“just do everything she says” he answers.

Through wars cold and hot,
Democrats and Republicans,
Mel Blanc, Mel Brooks and Mel Gibson,
television, video, internet and beyond,
they remain together,
solid in the knowledge of each other,
their shared love and shared life.
For sixty years past and sixty more to come,
they continue to inspire those of us who have the audacity to fall in love,
and think that we too can spend our lives together,
so perfectly.

In memory of Gertrude Iselin- 1921-2015 and Ralph Iselin- 1917-2012.

Written by: Eric Sims on February 8, 2015.