Family Pieces: Remembering My Grandmother

Today's entry must divert from its course of publishing discussion to focus on a recent event that has affected the author.

On March 3, 2010, the day after I published my last entry, my grandmother passed away. For those who have read my book, Scattered Pieces, you have an idea of how much my grandmother meant to me. All of the successes I have been blessed to achieve can  be accredited to all she has instilled in me. I have been able to endeavor undeterred because I knew that she, if no one else, believed in me. Her love was unconditional, and it knew no limits. She gave it, even if the recipient was unworthy.

My grandmother was the only person in the world whom I felt understood me, so when she passed I lost not just a grandmother, but a mother, a friend, a confidant, an ally. But, today, I write to you in the midst of my bereavement, not in mourning, but joyful. My heart is glad because of my many personal milestones that God had allowed her witness: my speeches, my graduations, my wedding, my children, and the publication of my first book. While many family members requested for me to give them a copy of my book, she was the first person to purchase one--and she never requested an autograph. That was my grandmother--giving without expectation. My grandmother, or "Mommom" as I affectionately called her,  resided in Delaware while I was living in Texas. She'd call me up many nights just to discuss the book. She would mention names of characters and try to figure out their true identities. She'd laugh at my words while reminiscing. She would talk about some the events mentioned in the book, and try to feed me family information so that I could pen a sequel. I'd laugh, and tell her that it was my first and last memoir and that the focus of the book was not to be about my family per say, but about family cycles of domestic violence. In despite of how she may have interpreted my work, it felt good knowing my 68-years-old grandmother was actively reading my book. I can honestly say she was my biggest fan, and until the day she breathed her last breath, I was hers.

As a writer, I cannot walk away from the experience of feeling the absence of her life without transferring those emotions onto the page. For me, it's therapy; it's healing; it's honoring; it's remembering. And, in spite of the brevity of her life, she lived a full one--one that is worth writing about.
In keeping of my word, I will not pen another memoir or autobiography, but she will undoubtedly be the inspiration of many stories to come.