Ode to Grandmom

A eulogy for my beloved maternal grandmother, Joan Mary Wilkins Miller. She died on August 8, 2023, surrounded by adoring family.

But first, a quick story — ten days following her death, for which I was lucky enough to be at her bedside, we gathered for Grandmom’s funeral. I’d asked my mom to schedule a portion of the funeral for speeches about her — from whoever wanted to get up in front of the crowd.

But whenever I sat down during those ten days to write, I couldn’t find anything. Grandmom’s last eight or so years were steeped in dementia. We still had regular visits and plenty of laughs in those years, but the unique timbre of our connection unquestionably faded with each year. Is that why I couldn’t find the words? Because the dementia years loomed disproportionately large in my memory bank now? I showed up to the funeral wordless, and a little embarrassed. Maybe I wouldn’t speak after all, despite specifically requesting the opportunity.

But then I saw her.

Well, not really her. Her body, ten days dead, dutifully frozen and maintained, made up and dressed to the nines, did not actually strike me as Her at all. I sat with her body for two or three hours after she died, and it still felt like Her. It didn’t now, but… she was evoked in the room. She was evoked in my cousins and their kids saying bye to her one by one. She was evoked in my mom, the eldest daughter, moving heaven and earth to make it to the funeral (she’d been in a remote part of the world for work when Grandmom died), and taking in Joan’s body for the first time.

So after an hour or two of sitting at the visitation, feeling Grandmom in these various ways, I stepped outside the funeral home for some fresh air, and finally the words came. I jotted them down just in time for the visitation to transition into the service.

When I think about Grandmom I think about how fun and warm she was.

How exciting it was knowing she was on her way for a visit. It was always such a treat getting to spend time with her. Even something simple like going out to dinner or playing mini golf with her was joyful, it was an adventure.

We laughed so hard. All the time. Over the silliest things. It’s hard to explain why things were so funny with her — it was as if laughter was just there in the room with us, infecting all of us when she was around. I think she carried it from place to place with her.

I loved being close to her — her big hugs and kisses, sneaking into her purse for mints, riding around in her car listening to the same Jimmy Buffett CD over and over.

When my brother Ben and I were little, we would clamor for the opportunity to sleep on the futon with her when she came to visit. The three of us would lay there for hours into the night, talking, giggling, telling stories… Grandmom in the middle, Ben and I on either side, playing with the Scotch tape in her hair.

I think she did a beautiful job of celebrating the little things in life — connecting with simple goodness in people and animals, appreciating delicious food, family time, and sunsets.

I think about the number of times over the years when she’d look around her and declare “life is good!” or “my cup runneth over.”

I know how much the whole family will miss our one-of-a-kind matriarch.

Grandmom, I hope you’re singing with the angels now, in your loud and confident soprano church-choir way.