The anniversary of death and birth
Today marks the 58th anniversary of the death of the great-grandmother I never got to meet, one of the thousands of victims of Stalin's regime. She lived long enough to be rehabilitated, but by that time, the intelligent, tenacious woman I've glimpsed through letters and stories of those who knew her was far too broken. She died too young.
Her friends fought for her, tried to take care of her kids. And toward the end, at least, she was cared for. She was loved. But that doesn't make up for the fundamental injustice of it all.
Today marks the birthday of one of her three granddaughters. My mom's cousin, who will always be Aunt Anya to me. And even though she told me that she feels like her arms and legs are falling off, she got to celebrate her birthday with her children and her granddaughter. Which, as she rightfully said, is the best present she could have gotten.
In the shadow of a tragedy, life endures. Memory endures. Family endures
Her friends fought for her, tried to take care of her kids. And toward the end, at least, she was cared for. She was loved. But that doesn't make up for the fundamental injustice of it all.
Today marks the birthday of one of her three granddaughters. My mom's cousin, who will always be Aunt Anya to me. And even though she told me that she feels like her arms and legs are falling off, she got to celebrate her birthday with her children and her granddaughter. Which, as she rightfully said, is the best present she could have gotten.
In the shadow of a tragedy, life endures. Memory endures. Family endures