A WEDDING SPEECH FOR MY SISTER, LAUREN

Lauren, while everyone can remember the first time they met your now-husband Alex, I cannot. Hear me out.

I don’t remember meeting you, Alex, for the same reason I don’t remember meeting any of my siblings for the first time; one day they were just there, like the grooves on my hand or the comforting smell of my childhood home—these things are so deeply ingrained into the way I understand my life that I feel they’ve always been there and always will be, unconditionally.

I only need to remind myself of the way in which Lauren bloomed from the shy, cautious child into the stunning woman she is today to confirm the fundamental impact you’ve had on her life. I have deep reverence for how you’ve worked your way into her heart for good, but also for your quiet intelligence that knows so well the value of restraint. But I find you so interesting, because right alongside this restraint is a relentless drive to challenge your mind so that it never ceases to surprise you with its potential to learn. Liver transplant anesthesiology. My good god. Among the most intellectually challenging professions on earth. If my words can so much as touch the idea of what that maybe-even-sort-of-possibly is, I will have done right by you, doctor.  

Lauren, I do think quite lovingly of the sibling rivalry we shared long ago. Mother chalks this up to being so close in age, but I think there was more to it. You had something I wanted but didn’t have. You had inner peace. But it wasn’t the coolest thing in the world to look up to a younger sibling, let alone for something like “inner peace,” and so I resolved to reap the benefits of being part of your world, knowing that no matter how I felt, being around you was a sure way to feel better. When I was anxious, you were calm. Where I spun, you stood. And today, I’m in awe of how you’ve so effortlessly rooted and nurtured a gem of a life that’s grown into this room full of people who love you dearly for being the beautiful, the funny, the compassionate and sturdy center of this spinning world.

I don’t imagine you’ll be teaching Alex twenty-minute lessons for twenty-five cents on how not to worry like you did for me years ago, but it’s hard not to anticipate how you’ll share your many secrets to finding such joy in life by simply standing and taking it all in. And Alex, I don’t doubt you’ll teach Lauren equally important lessons. You certainly already have. 

Together, the two of you are a force. You’re the power couple we all wish we could be. And not-so-secretly anymore, I look up to you each as individuals and to you both as a pair. May we all find the clarity to pursue life as you’re doing, so that it just makes sense.

A EULOGY FOR MY GRANDFATHER, GEORGE

For most of my life, I’ve been told that I’m just like my grandmother, Deity. Apparently I think like her, speak like her, and have a similar view of life. I’ve enjoyed these comparisons; it’s a lovely feeling to think that I’m even remotely as thoughtful and communicative as my grandmother is.

Last winter, between Christmas and New Year’s, I brought my husband Magnus to meet Deity and George for dinner on Long Island. I prepped him accordingly for the occasion, coaching him on how to speak to George loudly and clearly because of his hard hearing, and how the deeply specific questions George would almost certainly ask –  questions like: Do you drink tea or coffee in the morning? Do you use milk? How much milk? 1%?2%? Whole? – were not at all indications of nosiness but rather the workings of his highly intelligent mind getting to know you.

Fast forward to dinner time, after the handshakes, after George ordered fish as his main course, then requested for it to be taken away after two bites and replaced by spaghetti bolognaise; fast forward to the drive back home, after we all left the restaurant a little sad because at ninety-two years old, every meeting is a gift. Magnus and I were sitting in the car, in traffic, at a standstill on the Long Island Expressway. Ahead of us, a thousand break lights blinked.

“You’re way more like George than Deity,” he said.

“You’re full of shit,” I replied.

“True. But it’s also pretty obvious your father is the one who’s like Deity. You’re like George. Do you not see it?”

Maybe I could. Maybe I couldn’t. It’s sometimes difficult to recognize how deeply connected we are to a person until someone else brings our attention to it.

Thereafter, my mind was blown. I began to see myself in a new light, or as a new version: George 2.0, I would call it on good days – Unfortunate Genetics: A Memoir on bad ones. But on all days, George was never just my grandfather - he was an oddly wonderful genius, the tenderhearted wacko who engineered skyscrapers in New York City, bought a hot-dog stand on Park Avenue just because, and then built a small home for the guy who owned it, Vinny, because he had nowhere else to go. George Browne was a man who, on September 8, 2001, sold one of the buildings he’d engineered on the same block as the end of the world that would arrive three days later; its roof was the final resting ground of seven human beings whose lives he couldn’t help but touch, even then.

No, George wasn’t just my grandfather. He was a force that made the world a better place.

What Magnus said to me that night in the car has since worked its way into my subconscious. Today, it announces itself in behavior that I sometimes wish I could turn off. I’m now more aware of how often I feel the urge to brush my teeth in a given day (George’s avg. brush rate: 7x/day), and of how I cannot, simply cannot fall asleep without completing a series of intricate pre-bed rituals that include centering my pillow on the mattress and placing a glass of water on my night table that’s three-quarters full, not two-quarters, not full, but three-quarters full exactly. I’ve been this way my whole life.

I also need to mention that it’s not our common idiosyncrasies I care most about; what means more is the comfort I’ve felt since learning that I’m not alone in the world with them, and that it’s okay, celebrated even, to be a little weird.

And so in the spirit of weirdness, I’d like to take a moment and celebrate George’s own brand of it:

He once sent me a rush-delivered package to my home in the remote north of Iceland containing no more than a jar opener and three-hundred dollars in cash, again, just because.

He sent me emails almost daily, all of them written in all-caps with subject headings like OH, OH MY or FW: HOW THE ROVER GOT TO MARS – THIS IS PRETTY NEAT!

He taught me to play chess, my favorite game.

He drove three hours to take me and my siblings to the mall every Christmas when we were kids, and afterwards, he would sit with us at the diner while we laughed over fries and talked about nothing, which was everything; it was everything just to be near him, to be with this wonderful soul who had such zest for life and who put all of his energy into making others feel loved.

One time, I asked George what he thought the meaning of life is.

“Oh my,” he said. Then he reached for a chocolate and savored how its bitter turned to sweet in time.