On Remembering
I forgot my grandmother’s name last night.
I did eventually remember, but for a few moments, I tossed around the names of strangers: Linda? Debra? No, no, of course not. She had a name like her beehive hairstyle, stern and of a bygone era.
Ruth. Married to Ron. Mother to Judy. Of course.
To prove to myself that I did, in fact, remember my grandmother, I conjured memories of her. I remembered her house, where she cooked chicken covered in mayonnaise and corn flakes while my sister and I played with our new ZhuZhu Pets, robotic hamsters with which we were enamored because we were not allowed to have real pets. (We would eventually have two pet hamsters, both of whom devastatingly died within a few months because of, I suspect, some combination of suburban ignorance and neglect.)
This memory, I recalled, was the first time I had questioned the existence of God. Perhaps I was inspired by some conversation overheard among the adults that I have since forgotten. Perhaps I was confronted with the philosophy of creationism while looking at these robotic rodents, made by man’s hands to mimic God’s own. Or perhaps I was simply a child with a magical mind. A thought that has been tossed around a 27-year-old brain hundreds of times was brand new and spontaneous, so profound and world-changing that you remember it decades later, when you can’t even remember your grandmother’s name.
Ruth died in 2007. Now, all the ZhuZhu Pet fans reading this (of which I’m sure there are dozens) may be thinking, “But Katie, weren’t ZhuZhu Pets released in 2009?” Indeed they were, which unfortunately means that the memory I conjured for the sole purpose of proving to myself that I remembered my grandmother was not of her at all. This memory was actually of Wanda, the woman my grandfather married shortly after Ruth’s death. Sorry, Grandma.
Today, sixteen-ish years after this memory, I live across the street from a cemetery. This cemetery is almost entirely filled with anonymous graves – unknown babies, children, and adults, hundreds of names lost to time because of poverty or something equally unjust.
Today, I visit and give a grave to Ruth as an offering to rectify my mistake: Unknown Adult #54. I’m sure her remains reside up in New York, but for now, she’s here with me. I pray.
I pray that remembering is enough – that to Unknown Adult #54, to Ruth, a name is just a name. I pray that whatever we are made of – souls or stars or decaying bones – stirs like a difficult-to-contain giggle, glee overflowing, each time our humanity is recognized. When the remembered is nameless, I pray she laughs anyway.
I pray that heaven isn’t real, so Ruth isn’t angry at me for forgetting.
I pray that it is, for the same reason.