she knew and she loved

I twirled my grandma’s loose rings around my thumbs as I climbed and spoke words of gratitude, knowing she’s a big reason I have the life I have now. Knowing that she knew I was queer nearly my entire life and didn’t skip a beat in loving me. For some reason during this Pride month, swirling with continual horrible news for LGBTQ+ folks, it’s this story that I’m returning to again and again. She knew and she loved. She knew and she loved. Why is it so hard?

I wonder sometimes if she looked at queer people differently after her friend blurted out, “Lil, she’s gay” while staring at me climbing a tree in their yard. Did she befriend them more, hoping it might help me coming out one day? Did she view news about queer people differently, seeing the truth in the small representation of how I am compared to how we’re portrayed? How did her lack of faith play a role (if any)? I remember hearing stories here and there of their having gay friends. I remember when my grandad died wondering if he knew and wishing he did, only to find out my parents had told them. I cry as I write this with relief–I wanted him to know me before he died. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to tell him. I wish people remembered the courage it still takes. I wish people understood that coming out is continual. I wish people understood the shame that sometimes lingers, even a decade on. I wish it was just as normal to talk about being queer as it is about being straight, the norm in any conversation. I’ve been called out before for talking “too much” about being queer by straight family members, the irony of the inherent straightness of our conversations lost on them.

I don’t talk out loud when I’m alone but, when I do, it’s often when sending words out into the world for my grandma to receive. I’ve started talking with my other grandparents too. My grannie would love the hikes and walks I’m going on. She’d probably outpace me and would definitely wake up early for the sunrise as I accidentally did twice while in Venice. My grandad would have supported and joined for my twice in a day gelato adventure yesterday. He likely would love the wildflowers dotting the path as the mountains came into view. He used to grow roses and I don’t quite know why. Grannie grew vegetables, sometimes not seeing a squash or zucchini for too long allowing them to balloon into massive shapes, mimicking ballon art. I never got to know Guion, my middle name-sake and grandfather on my mom’s side. I somehow know he would love these mountain views just as much (and like stop to ask the local farmers about their efforts).

And then there are the grandparents on my birthmom’s side that I’ve only heard stories about and never had the chance to utter a single word to. I think my grandfather was gunned down in WWII somewhere in Italy. I’ve heard different stories at different times. I wonder where and I wonder if he saw these mountains before me.