Oct. 21, 2008 at 10:08pm
Mary Jane Nagan — November 3, 1917 – October 15, 2008 My grandma passed away on Wednesday. I left work immediately after talking to my mom, and came home to stuff my hot pink suitcase with over-sized t-shirts, 4 pairs of pumps, and every dress I owned. I drank glasses of wine with Wendy and Hannah, and smoked cigarettes out of Hannah’s bedroom window. In the darkness of the room, we talked and talked of my grandma, causing big, fat tears to well in our eyes. Once I pulled it together, I rolled myself over to Nora’s to sleep before our flight the next morning. Flying into Minneapolis, I realized I was coming home to the prime of fall. The trees were crimson and the air was bitter. Although I brought a jacket, I rarely used it, choosing instead to let the cold air numb my fingers and toes, and sometimes take my breath away. The five days in Minnesota were spent surrounded by family. Together, we all came – to grieve, and to prepare the most lovely, picturesque funeral for our mother, for our grandmother, for our friend. Saturday night we had what Father Gillespie called, The Last Supper. 60+ family members, and close friends gathered at my dad’s studio, where Uncle Matt prepared an Italian feast. Bottles of wine littered the tables – we gave toasts and speech-like family updates. We cried, and laughed uncontrollably. Some of us went into food comas, and some of us got so drunk, we needed to be taken home early. The funeral service at The Basilica was beautiful – four priests stood on the altar, and family and friends filled the pews. Bells rang, tears poured, incense burned, beautiful words were spoken, and heartbreaking music played. Through the entire service, I couldn’t stop thinking: Grandma would love this so, so much. I just got back to Brooklyn and am startled by how uncomfortably windy and cold it is. My neck is sore from sleeping on the floor of my grandma’s bedroom my first night in town, where I passed out pillow-less, wrapped in a blanket next to my mom. As much as I need sleep in my familiar bed, what I crave instead are familiar voices surrounding me – the bear hugs from little ones, kisses from aunts and uncles I hardly get to spend time with, and the memories, and stories exchanged between excited cousins. But alas, here I am alone in a drafty bedroom. The biggest celebration has wrapped, and now the family must continue to carry Mary Jane on from wherever it is we call home.

Mary Jane Nagan — November 3, 1917 – October 15, 2008

My grandma passed away on Wednesday. I left work immediately after talking to my mom, and came home to stuff my hot pink suitcase with over-sized t-shirts, 4 pairs of pumps, and every dress I owned. I drank glasses of wine with Wendy and Hannah, and smoked cigarettes out of Hannah’s bedroom window. In the darkness of the room, we talked and talked of my grandma, causing big, fat tears to well in our eyes. Once I pulled it together, I rolled myself over to Nora’s to sleep before our flight the next morning.

Flying into Minneapolis, I realized I was coming home to the prime of fall. The trees were crimson and the air was bitter. Although I brought a jacket, I rarely used it, choosing instead to let the cold air numb my fingers and toes, and sometimes take my breath away.

The five days in Minnesota were spent surrounded by family. Together, we all came – to grieve, and to prepare the most lovely, picturesque funeral for our mother, for our grandmother, for our friend.

Saturday night we had what Father Gillespie called, The Last Supper. 60+ family members, and close friends gathered at my dad’s studio, where Uncle Matt prepared an Italian feast. Bottles of wine littered the tables – we gave toasts and speech-like family updates. We cried, and laughed uncontrollably. Some of us went into food comas, and some of us got so drunk, we needed to be taken home early.

The funeral service at The Basilica was beautiful – four priests stood on the altar, and family and friends filled the pews. Bells rang, tears poured, incense burned, beautiful words were spoken, and heartbreaking music played. Through the entire service, I couldn’t stop thinking: Grandma would love this so, so much.

I just got back to Brooklyn and am startled by how uncomfortably windy and cold it is. My neck is sore from sleeping on the floor of my grandma’s bedroom my first night in town, where I passed out pillow-less, wrapped in a blanket next to my mom. As much as I need sleep in my familiar bed, what I crave instead are familiar voices surrounding me – the bear hugs from little ones, kisses from aunts and uncles I hardly get to spend time with, and the memories, and stories exchanged between excited cousins.

But alas, here I am alone in a drafty bedroom. The biggest celebration has wrapped, and now the family must continue to carry Mary Jane on from wherever it is we call home.