Abigail Sefzik

In memory of Pansy Anderson

It’s an odd thing to pave the road for someone who is about to die, the sterile logistics of losing a loved one. You make funeral arrangements like calling a restaurant for a dinner reservation. You discuss cremation or burial, like asking a friend which dress looks better before a night out. Even with the impending weight of grief on your shoulders, you simply do the next thing, not because you want to or because you are strong, but frankly, because death leaves you with no other options. Forward is the only path to take.

These were the sorts of reflections my mind drowsily soaked in as I sat cross-legged on the floor of my dying Memaw’s spare room, sifting and sorting through quite literally all of her earthly belongings. The purpose of this gleaning was to prepare her for moving into into a care home, the natural consequence of longer being able to care for herself, the next stop on the bus to The End. Isn’t it strange how all the evidence of someone’s existence can be confined to a single room? Eighty years of glittery gizmos and gadgets of plenty, all this stuff isn’t so neat when the reality is it can’t even come with her- to the care home or to what lay after.

I submerged myself into the ocean of her past; each box, pile and folder built a bridge to the woman whose blood runs through my veins. Like a pirate searching for treasure, I flipped through old photographs, tattered and torn. Some pictures were posed, others candid snapshots of memorably mundane moments. While in some, I recognized past versions of myself, my grandfather, brothers, cousins, uncle, aunt and parents, other faces were strangers to me—yet friends to her. I smiled, letting my imagination hear the sounds of pleasant chatter, the smell of neighborhood BBQs, and the salty South Carolina beach air. I wondered where all these people were now. Did they find love? Did they experience loss? Did they discover happiness? Did they have their own granddaughter who, at this very moment, was somewhere else in the world, also flipping through photos and asking the same questions? 

Amidst the montage of both familiar and strange faces, the main character remained—her, my Memaw, Pansy Anderson. She glowed with a halo of bleach-blonde hair, crimson lips, and enough sunny dreams to fuel an entire Telsa factory. She was striking—Marilyn Monroe with a Southern twist. She brought colour into any space she set a Louis Vuitton foot in, literally and figuratively; each house turned home, adorned with vibrant colours and elaborate decor. A pang of sorrow reverberated throughout the caverns of my heart, sobering my intoxicating nostalgia as I thought about the now fragile skeleton medicated in her bed- the opaque shadow of who this kaleidoscope of a woman used to be. Smooth skin patched and blistered, golden curls gray and brittle, melodious voice drowned by fluid filled lungs- ripe dreams turned rotten on the vine of time. The hands of the ticking clock are greedy, leaving no survivors. Growing up is scary but growing old, now that is more terrifying than death itself.

Today. I’m thousands of miles away from that stuffy room in East Texas, yet no closer to unraveling the paradoxes of growing up and growing old. My Memaw has been gone for over a year now. She quite literally fought until the bitter end, but despite Pansy Anderson being the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known, I like to think that when Death came to visit her that afternoon in late August, for the first time in her life, she didn’t put up a fight; but instead, she willingly took It’s hand and let it gently lead her to a place where she finally felt a sensation entirely unfamiliar to her: peace. The sufferings of her finite existence shattered in the wake of eternity. As we shed tears, she shed the confines of her mortality, a body that had been both her biggest pride and greatest pain in equal measure. Now, the garden of her legacy is cultivated by the generations- not the things she left behind. She was wonderful in her own unique way that only she could be-yet she was a deeply flawed woman- so incredibly and imperfectly human. Her life contained decisions of profound good and bad, but I do not think the measure of a good life is the total sum of someone’s deeds. But rather, her mistakes were a playbook for those willing to listen and learn. In her youth, she witnessed the sunrise of my beginning; in my youth, I’m thankful to have witnessed the sunset of her end. 

While growing up is still daunting, growing old is less so. Because, after all, the impending weight of mortality on your shoulder doesn’t grow lighter, only slightly more familiar. You must simply do the next thing, not because you want to or because you are strong, but frankly because life leaves you with no other options. Forward is the only path to take.