Geraldine

This Midwestern housewife and I had nothing in common. A love of family, perhaps, but we weren't blood. Her people were hardy German and Scandavavian stock. I know this because one year I did her genealogy as a present.

By the time I met Geraldine, I'd been through a litany of steps. Step-grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and several step-parents. I figured there was no need to bother with the new set as either my father would divorce their daughter, or more likely, their daughter would divorce my father.

I wasn't prepared to love her. But she wore me down with unwavering acceptance and never invoking the 'step' part of our relationship. She understood that I loved her and that I just didn't show it in demonstrative ways. No one knew I had autism back then. But I was still hers and she understood me. I think the way I'd cry at the end of our visits clued her in that I cared.

We all knew of her troubles with Hepatitis C, contracted through a blood transfusion decades before. A drug trial at the Mayo Clinic put her in remission, but her body was just too tired. 

My brothers, sisters-in-law, and I drove straight through from Texas to the frozen Midwest to say our goodbyes right before Christmas.

The funeral wasn't exactly somber; it was a celebration of her life carried out in quiet prairie fashion. A picture montage was set up and I couldn't look away from the vital, energetic woman she used to be. Pictures are a thing for me. While words carry weight, pictures capture tiny slivers of a life. Moments that will never happen again. There's magic in pictures. The one of her and my grandfather dancing the 'longest married couple dance' at my youngest brother's wedding two years ago was one that hit me hard. They looked thrilled to be in each other's arms. That is what love looks like.

When the service was over, we moved to the burial site, and stood in rows, huddled together against a blustery lake wind as we listened to the preacher's final blessing. I'm not religious, but if there's a heaven, Geraldine deserves to be there.

When the time for general words had passed, we said our own words to her in single-file fashion. Watching my elderly grandfather lay his head close to her casket and whisper love and goodbyes to his wife, best friend, and mother of his children is something I'll never forget.

When it was my turn. I kissed my fingers and laid them on her coffin and silently told her I loved her. She showed me that blood is not always what makes family.

A receiving line started a few feet away so that people could give condolences to her husband and kids. I walked up to my grandfather and he grabbed me tight and told me that she had loved me so very, very much. I wanted to comfort him, but he wouldn't let me. He just kept telling me over and over how much they loved me. I cried and wrapped my arms around his neck. We simply held each other as the line of people moved around us.

He still totters around in their house by the lake. I imagine nothing has changed in Geraldine's red house since she left it. The little iron horse sitting on the mantle was one I bought at an antique fair and she loved it so much that I gave it to her. She joked that I'd get it back someday. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Back then, her passing was nearly two decades away and we could afford to laugh at such silliness. I couldn't bring myself to take it when I left, even though they tried to make me. It belongs on her mantle. Some things just don't need to change.

❤️