23

It's the age I was when I got married.
My aunt's number in sports; we all wore it at one point or another. (Forget Jordan and James, they don't count).
And it's the birthday day that I share with both of my grandpas.

I was born 16 days late. Don't believe me? Ask my mother. She has for sure never forgotten this about my birth. We joke about all of the reasons my birth was delayed: I needed extra heavenly instruction, I didn't want to leave, my husband (who was born a mere 11 days before me) wouldn't marry an older woman, I like making people wait, I'm a stubborn cuss. I think all of the above may be true. All I know for sure is that I love being born on the 23rd.

And I miss the men whose birthday number I shared.

My Grandpa Browning would have been 80 years old today. He died three days before I turned 24. I miss him everyday. Sometimes I forget what side of heaven he is on; I often expect him to show up at family functions. I have no doubt that sometimes he does; we just can't see him.

I didn't get to say a "real" good-bye to either of my grandpas. When my Grandpa Burningham died, my parents wisely decided that it was best for us to remember him the way he was the last time we saw him: smiling and chuckling at my little brother's 11th birthday party. When my Grandpa Browning died, he wisely decided that none of his grandchildren would see him in such rough state. I never saw him in his halo, but I still think of him everytime I hear Beyonce on the radio. I remember sitting in a bland family waiting room at the U of U hospital. I remember the smells of the Subway sandwiches we brought as they went stale. I remember talking to the two of my cousins who also were there. I remember Scott sitting with me as I watched my parents, aunts, and uncles go in and out of the room. I only saw my grandma in the hall, the clock jutting out of the wall reading somewhere between two and three am. She was flanked on all sides by a bedraggled, tall, Browning army. The whole scene is monochromatic in my mind: their usually rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes seemed dull and gray.

In every creative writing class I ever took in college, my professors had one rule: DO NOT WRITE ABOUT A GRANDPARENT'S DEATH.

It's too cliche, they'd say.
Everyone's been there.
You have nothing new to add.
Everybody dies.
In essence, get over it, but don't write about it.

So every time I've wanted to write about their deaths, I've tried to avoid the subject. After all, I have two degrees that say I know better.

I've since learned something that my professors could never quite verbalize: we treat death over-dramatically. When you know what comes next, and how close those who no longer have bodies really are, then death is nothing more than someone trading in a body for temporary invisibility. They live in grander ways after they've died. They live in our memories, our hearts, our fettishes and inside jokes and tender mercies and stories and our motivation to be better.

Both of my grandpas have a place in my home.

Grandpa Browning is there when we have family scripture study and family prayer. He's there when I tease my children and drag my daughter out of bed over-cheerfully. He's there when I sprinkle cinnamon sugar on my daughter's toast and put fresh strawberries on my ice cream. He's there in the way I try and treat others will love, kindness, and a smile. He's there when I curse under my breath. He's there when my son gets some crazy idea and there when my baby girl starts giggling for no reason. He's there when we talk about heaven, there when I teach my children the meaning of the word "resurrection." He's there when I make out with my husband in the kitchen and there when I buy flamingo stuff just because. He's there in the antique books and rocking chair that he passed to me. He's there in photos and in decisions and in heartaches.

Grandpa Burningham was not as loud or boisterous, and his gentle influence is felt in calmer, steadier ways. He's there when the trees and flowers start blooming. He's there pointing out a bird's nest so I can show it to my children. He's there at the first snow; I see him on his red flyer sled laughing like a little boy as he sleds down the gravel lane. He's there when I send my husband off to fulfill a calling, there when I watch and sing Broadway musicals, there when I learn something new about World War II. He's there, silently giggling when I'm in a bad mood for some insane and unimportant reason. He's there when I pour my son a bowl of Golden Graham's or give my children an ice cream treat. I can see his smile and feel the warmth of his hugs. Memories of him remind me that sometimes it is important to just sit in the recliner and listen to music or cuddle a child; because of him I know that you don't need words to express joy, love, support, or satisfaction.

With Easter right around the corner, memories of them and others who have gained a greater life are prominent in my mind. New life comes from death; that's the great metaphor of spring, right? Pruning means a more abundant harvest. Rain makes the flowers grow. Beautiful rewards come with sacrifice and sometimes a painful price.

The seasons keep on changing and life keeps going.