Marjorie

Marjorie. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still around.” I will be forever grateful to Taylor Swift for these words. The first time I heard the song, I broke down into tears (and yes, sometimes I still do). My grandmother, Marjorie, passed when I was only 7 years old but I always thought of her as a Saint (at the very least she had the patience of one). In my young eyes, she was perfect. Ever since I was young, all I’ve wanted to do is emulate her. This song is so very close to the woman that she was and why I admire her so. 

“Never be so kind, you forget to be clever. Never be so clever, you forget to be kind.” The opening lyrics hit me like a ton of bricks. Why? Because I know that in the past, I didn’t live up to the kind part the way I should have. Simply said, I lost myself, and I’ve spent the last few years finding myself again. To become the woman that she would’ve been proud of. A woman who is kind to others, who does not judge, who displays empathy and compassion. There are a few phrases that stick out to me that she would say, “If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all” and “You’ll never walk a day in another person’s shoes.” She is especially right about the walking in someone else’s shoes phrase, not a single one of us has the same lived experience. It’s the reason we need to have conversations with each other and be open to different perspectives. At the same time, it’s important to demand the same respect that you give to others.

Throughout the song, she uses the phrase, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still around.” In so many ways, she is here with me, and always will be. In others, her absence is felt so incredibly deeply. The first thing that went up in my new house when I moved was a picture of her and my grandfather. It helps me to see that visual, to remind me of her presence in my life. When I’ve faced some of the greatest struggles in my life, it’s her that I talk to. I ask her for signs, and so often, I get them, and whether or not that’s “real”, it helps. I’ve lived the majority of my life without her so while I’m used to her absence, I never want her memory to dim. I always want to be able to feel her presence and ask for her to guide me, or ask for the strength when things get hard. To ask myself the question, “What would grandma tell you to do?”

I am the youngest of the grandchildren. After she passed, I was bitter, because that meant I got the least amount of time with her, I was so jealous they had more time. My 7-year-old brain kept thinking that she promised she’d teach me how to make ketchup (not ashamed to admit I was, and might still be obsessed). Looking back now, I think that was my young brain trying to process that she was gone, and all of the things that wouldn’t happen anymore. There are so many snippets that stand out to me. The cousins used to have sleepovers and those are happy memories (that I almost forgot about until this moment). I remember sitting out on the picnic table under our big tree with her, just enjoying the nice weather. I loved baking cookies with her but I’ve never been able to make them on my own since. She and my grandpa would take me out to lunch, and when one of the restaurants we used to go to was torn down a few years ago, it felt like just a little bit more of those memories faded. These memories, while there, feel so distant, and fuzzy, because I was so young. 

“The car ride back and up the stairs. I should've asked you questions. I should've asked you how to be. Asked you to write it down for me. Should've kept every grocery store receipt. 'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me. Watched as you signed your name Marjorie. All your closets of backlogged dreams. And how you left them all to me.” Oooof, that hit me. There are so many things I wish I would’ve gotten to talk to her about (that I obviously would’ve never thought about at 7-years-old). Now, the only thing I can do, is ask about her and do my own research (thank goodness for Ancestry). I’m grateful that there are a number of photos of her throughout her life that are still in good condition. But, it’s just not the same.

Now, I’m going to go grab a box of tissues and keep listening to the song. Writing this was cathartic yet a little painful. Her memory will always be with me, “What died didn’t stay dead. You’re alive, so alive.”