Two Weeks on the West Coast

 A couple days ago, quivering with exhaustion from our redeye flight, Zach and I returned home after a two-week trip to visit his family near Sacramento and Portland. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, to visit the homes of both Zach's grandmothers who passed away this spring. I had hoped that the trip would help me get some closure about their deaths, but it turns out that death can feel surreal even when you're helping clear out a house where someone once lived. She's just somewhere else right now, my mind kept assuming. Perhaps my mind is right.

We visited Grandpa Ray— the last surviving grandparent between the two of us— in Sacramento first, watching science documentaries on the TV and Anna's hummingbirds at the feeder on the kitchen window. The house was almost untouched from when we'd been there last, with Grandma Kathy's gorgeous watercolor paintings hanging in between friends' art, album covers, concert flyers, postcards, and family photos. We visited the Crocker Art Museum and went bowling. We ate takeout and homemade burritos, and walked in the shade of palm trees and sycamores. 

Grandma Kathy's death only felt real once during the visit, for a moment, as we sat around the table eating Thai food. I remember playing the board game Taboo with them when Zach and I visited ten years ago as a dating couple. We played boys against girls, and I was trying to get Grandma Kathy to guess the word "cobweb." My clues weren't very good, and just before the timer buzzed she yelled "spider corn!" and we all laughed uproariously. Without her, the table felt so eerily silent.

My favorite of her paintings (sorry about the reflections in it!)

Zach and Carly the adorable kitty (who is so done with him right now)

Soon we were on our way to Portland, whose cold rainy weather was quite a contrast from the Sacramento sunshine. Another contrast was Grandma Diane's house, which was in upheaval as Zach's dad and aunt worked on clearing it out in order to sell it. I walked through the house, which looked light and strangely bare despite being covered in packing clutter, and registered nothing. We'd spend several evenings and a couple days over there, helping to sort through the artifacts of a whole life.

Grandma Diane as a little girl

It wasn't all work, of course: we enjoyed walks in the misty forests, hikes through the camas lily fields in a nearby park, strolls along the Columbia River, a drive to see the swollen waterfalls in the Columbia Gorge, visits with Zach's sister, sister-in-law, and their foster child, evenings spent glued to the TV as we watched through the shows Severance and How To With John Wilson, and of course, lots of chips, salsa, and ice cream. 

In the end, the trip wasn't what I expected— I didn't find myself able to grieve or find closure— but it was still good for what it was: a chance to visit family, help with practical matters such as hauling furniture, and simply be present during the extended fallout of loss. I'm glad we went, and I'm glad we're home.

~~~