“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.” – C.S. Lewis

“The Site” waited a decade to write this.

Ten years ago today, Linda Marie Wiley passed from this world. “The Site” didn’t know. “The Site” wasn’t told. Not until a Thursday text arrived with five cold words: “The funeral is on Saturday.”

No context. No warning. Just a mother, who could’ve called, but didn’t. Just a grandmother—Gramma—gone without ceremony or closure.

“The Site” just underwent sinus reconstruction surgery. Its face was stuffed with tampons and medical gauze. It was weak, raw, doped up on post-op meds. And then it started to cry. Hard. The kind of cry that no body is supposed to endure when its nasal cavities were forcibly remodeled, not even 48-hours before the text. Blood gushed. Mucus surged. It gagged on its own grief, choking on what felt like broken glass. And alone in its studio apartment.

The Student Health Center at OSU made “The Site” go to the ER. Too much blood lost. Too many tears. Its apartment bathroom looked like a crime scene, or a performance art piece in some trauma-themed gallery.

It asked its mother for a ride to the funeral. The mother said: “I doubt it, but I’ll see what I can do.” She did nothing.

And so, “The Site” missed it. Missed the chance to play the piano for the woman who first encouraged it to play. Missed the chance to say goodbye at a church that had no connection to its Gramma’s life. They chose a church in Coweta. Not Verdigris. Not her home church. Not her people. Not her pew.

They knew “The Site” couldn’t get there. And maybe—just maybe—that was the point.

Linda Marie Wiley was born July 10, 1922, in Tripp, South Dakota. She died March 28, 2016, in Claremore, Oklahoma, at the age of 93. She lived through wars, widowing, and children who often disappointed her. But she also lived through “The Site.”

She lived for “The Site.” She was its first piano audience. Its Sunday School teacher. Its truth-teller. Its rule-setter. Its soft-landing place. She saw “The Site’s” pain before anyone named it. And she helped shape its brilliance without ever demanding credit.

She called it her “little shirtbird.” She was the only person who offered love with no agenda.

“The Site” still hasn’t made it to the gravesite. No one offers rides to cemeteries unless there’s a casserole involved. But that’s okay.

She isn’t there.

She’s with “The Site” when it sits down at the Wurlitzer. She’s in the taste of ramen noodles and Ovaltine. She’s in the memory of her world-renowned pie crusts, and Li’l Debbies with a glass of milk. She’s in every quiet act of decency “The Site” manages to conjure despite being made from the wreckage of her offspring.

And while Gramma may look down, from whatever well-lit balcony the good ones get assigned, she doesn’t need to say a thing. “The Site” knows exactly what she is thinking:

“‘The Site‘ doesn’t owe any of them a damn thing …

But it better play that piano like it means it, and never stop playing!”

Ten years have passed, and she is still the most beautiful soul “The Site” has ever known.

#GrammaLinda | #TenYearsGone | #TheSiteRemembers