Perspective | My grandmother left a legacy as a writer. But that’s not the woman I remember.
On Mother’s Day, my mother said goodbye on behalf of all of us — cousins, uncles, great-uncles. From New York and Vermont, from Washington and Montana, from California and China, we watched her read a Mary Oliver poem in front of the funeral home, her voice straining over the wind. My grandmother left behind a legacy. She died during a great pandemic, and when it has subsided, we will scatter her ashes in the state that she loved, by the Golden Gate Bridge. Her obituary appeared in the New York