![]() But when the war came, for a reason unbeknownst to me, I felt the need to hurry. This made sense and still I dragged my feet, not knowing how to plan for death. We could prepare, avoid some of the cruelty of logistics. My partner had suggested I make arrangements now. I also didn’t want to fill out forms when the time to fall apart had already arrived. I wanted to do more, to let my grandma make decisions. She said that I could figure out the rest when the time came. Initially, her plan was to give me stacks of dollar bills she’d put away little by little since our immigration. I tried to talk to Grandma about all this for months. The pressure’s on to translate and to help her choose while honoring her tastes and inhibitions. I feel a little like I’m ordering for Grandma at a restaurant. How strange that we put on our best when meeting people who will see us naked, sick, or dead.Īfter a tactful beat, he leaves us to look at the “menus” for the different services. She had the urge to know whose hands she’d put her body in. My grandma shakes her head and says, “This war, if someone told me, I would not believe them.” The funeral director says he had a grandma who came over long ago. Some people let out tears pooling below the surface, while others shrug and make vague statements about propaganda. My mother told me that this neighborhood has many Putinists and that one can’t be sure of the response when uttering the word “Ukraine” in Russian. The funeral director has a name that couldn’t be more common in Ukraine, but names get stuck to us in different ways and they don’t necessarily correspond to politics. My grandma’s voice is low, more plaintive than questioning. She has no problem saying what is on her mind, but this is not a provocation. “Did you come from Ukraine?” my grandma asks, bringing the small talk to a stop. I watch in admiration as he puts at ease the person who is here to face her own mortality. He even makes some jokes that get a chuckle from my grandma. We sit down and make small talk while the funeral director hands us papers. ![]() We’re shown into a room that has a dining table made of oak and topped by glass. How strange that we put on our best when meeting people who will see us naked, sick, or dead. I want to do her proud in front of strangers. They’re part of a whole look, complete with flowy pants and coat, a cloche, and freshly painted purple nails. Because I tower over her, I glimpse her painted cherry lips. Her mask, handmade by someone else, hangs down below her nose. I don’t remove my mask, throwing a glance at Grandma that says “Keep it on.” The last thing I want is to put her at risk while doing this. Only in death will I stop measuring my Russian against others’ and find mine lacking. I’m pleased because he’ll understand my grandma, but also envious that he can speak so fluently, despite not being from the Soviet Union. He is a tall, broad-shouldered man who speaks a honeyed, easy Russian, almost a different language in his mouth. “We’re vaccinated and boosted in this office, so you can take your mask off if you want,” the funeral director says. She is pragmatic to a fault, but I’m not confident that she can handle this. He also likes it when my grandma makes decisions for them both. My grandpa has a hard time walking and prefers to stay glued to the war, though how he handles seeing childhood streets reduced to rubble perplexes me. My grandparents are still alive and Grandma is with me. On this side of the street, there is the bus stop where I wasted countless hours of youth, waiting to go to more exciting parts of town. Next to it is the golden-domed cathedral we saw from our windows. Across the street is the apartment building that my mom and I moved into the day we arrived. It made me feel like I would never get the sound of Russian out of my ears, like we had emigrated just to be among more Soviets. The funeral home is in the neighborhood I hated all my childhood in America. I’ve come to San Francisco to arrange burials for my grandma and grandpa. It’s been a month since Russia fired its missiles on the city of my birth, unleashing full-scale war. Maggie Levantovskaya | Longreads | Aug| 20 minutes (5,624 words) Join Longreads and help us to support more writers.
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