84 and there’s still more.

Late January of this year, my grandma woke up to her husband of 67 years cold in his recliner. My grandpa had gotten up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, and went to the living room to watch a movie—not uncommon for him to do. There, he closed his eyes and at some point, the life inside him let go.

I’ll always wonder what movie he decided to turn on.

I hope it was something funny.

Grieving my grandfather comes in waves I’m learning to ride—a process I’m trying to trust and let do its work. But in the midst of my own mourning, I’ve been stopping to imagine what those waves look like for my grandma and how the grief of an empty recliner sits in her home.

67 years with one person.

Married at 17.

By 22, four kids.

My grandma’s life was her family; my grandpa her constant. She transitioned straight from her family of origin to the home she would create for her four sons and one ridiculously difficult and wonderful man. And while that might’ve been her dream from the beginning, it’s strange to think about how the only other version of herself she knew outside of wife and mother was a teenager with a straight blonde bob who loved Tweety Bird and was trying to graduate high school.

But now, at 84, my grandmother is being introduced to a whole new version of herself—one of her alone.

I never thought about how people pushing 90 could still be met with brand-new experiences, but this is a side of my grandma I’ve never met, and I suspect, is one she hasn’t either.

A few weeks after Grandpa’s memorial, I drove down to visit my grandma having promised that once the weather turned, we’d have a walk together. As I drove, I wondered how the house would feel without my grandfather. Whenever I arrived for a visit, he’d usually be in the front tending to the yard, at his workbench in the garage working on a model airplane, or playing Solitaire in the computer room.

I took a moment to let it sink in that I wouldn’t see him doing any of those things this time. I rode the wave.

The house was clean and quiet.

After my grandma debated about wearing a hat for 10 minutes and asking me if I wanted one three times, we finally made our way out the door into the sunshine. We took our slow time down the street, carefully stepping on and off curbs, chatting, and making our unhurried way to the tennis courts a few blocks from her home. A pitstop I was familiar with, we opened the gate to the courts where a group of neighborhood seniors gathered daily to play and exchange seasoned smack talk.

We took a rest on the bleachers and I learned from my grandma’s friends that pickleball is the new fad in the geriatric community of Rio Vista and you’re behind the times if you’re not getting in on it.

As my grandma and I watched the matches unfold, a flow of passersby stopped to say hello. Anyone under the age of 50 draws a crowd in this neck of the woods, so I had the game sweetly explained to me 12 times over and more than once heard how “if you start practicing now and you invest in good equipment, by the time you’re our age, you could dominate this game.”

I would’ve happily sat on those bleachers all day having these repetitive conversations.

Sitting beside my grandma, watching her handle each new face that came up, introducing me and then chatting away, I began to realize I’d never heard her talk that much. I’d been to these courts before, I’d met these geezers in their gym socks and visors, and I’d spent these kinds of afternoons visiting my grandparents, but there was a contrast on display I wasn’t familiar with.

My grandma was taking up new space.

Historically, Grandpa was the talker. Full of witty comebacks and sass and always with something to say, he was popular amongst his community and well-known for his charm. Beside him, my grandma would chime in to correct inaccuracies in his stories, add context, or give detail where he didn’t care to elaborate. However, the dynamic of my grandpa taking center stage in social situations had become the norm over the decades of their marriage.

But that day at the courts, in my grandpa’s absence, I saw my grandma blooming with colors I’d never seen, and it was profound.

My grandma lived 80% of her life veiled by her husband’s grandiose energy. Not in an oppressing way, but more so, in the natural equilibrating that happens when two personalities come together and stay together for 67 years. He was loud; she was reserved. He blurted whatever came to mind; she spoke when she had something important to say. He was overly confident; she erred on the side of caution.

They differed but balanced one another.

But what’s beautiful to see now is this new role my grandma is free to take up—the extra space available and how she is slowly branching out to fill it. Finding the validation of support from family and friends as she does so, I see this newfound sense of self in her smile, and I felt it in our hug goodbye after this visit.

My grandpa left his striking mark and it’s stunning to see that my grandma has been gifted the years and space and time to leave her own.

Upon arriving back from the courts, Grandma immediately led me to her bedroom where she cracked open a box of gold bracelets and told me to pick one. I was immediately drawn to the daintiest of the collection and put it on. I’ve been wearing it ever since, keeping it on as a reminder that even at 84, I will still be transforming, and to “slow down you’re doing fine. You can’t be everything you want to be before your time.”