A few weeks ago I wrote about the last time I ever spoke to many members of my family (read it here) for the first time. Since then, I’ve reconnected with one of them: a cousin. She heard a podcast I was on talking about how much my grandmother loved music. My cousin was young, maybe 5 years old, all those decades ago when these people I loved so much started to disappear. Now, she’s in her twenties. In fact, she was celebrating her birthday the weekend I published that letter. I’d like to believe that was a little nudge from my grandma. 

It felt so good to talk to someone who loved my people. As much as some of the updates made me sad, it felt special to grieve my grandmother with someone who loved her the way I did. In our conversations since, I’ve learned that she loved both of us in many of the same ways. She wasn’t overly affectionate, but she loved us with cards and newspaper clippings to tell us how proud she was of our accomplishments. Voicemails that always ended with an “I love you.” She spoiled us every time we walked into her home of 60+ years - the same one my cousin lives in now. Even after all these years of distance, her love is palpable to me. I remember her. 

I saw a really beautiful video Monday morning of a family remembering their father who passed recently. In the video, I saw a series of clips. The first few were from before he died where he made his wishes clear. His smile was so big as he enthusiastically made suggestions. “Those good chocolate truffles,” he shouted happily. “And flags decorating the grave,” he said while waving his arms around. Then, he told them to bring a coffee and pour it on the dirt. “I’ll taste it,” he said with a mischievous grin. 

Between each new request and clip were videos of the family following through. It brought tears to my eyes to watch them lay truffles on the disrupted dirt in the days following his burial and stick flags in the ground. They even poured coffee on the dirt. They smiled a familiar smile in each scene. It looked just like his smile. The video’s soundtrack was their laughter. Those trips to the grave must feel a lot like the conversations I’ve had with my cousin, full of the grief and joy that comes with remembering what made someone happy when they were alive. 

As much as I hope to be remembered for writing something incredible and the stories I tell on stage, I am far more interested in being remembered in the little joys of life. The things I loved that will someday remind someone of me. Gluten free dessert that tastes too good to be gluten free. Heart shaped leaves. A black camper van or a penny on the sidewalk. A song my girlfriend heard me turn into a vocal stim (there are a lot). I hope to be remembered in the same way my cousin and I remember my grandmother today: laughing with my whole chest and ending every call with “I love you.”