In Loving Memory
Can I tell you about my wickedly intuitive grandmother?
In late October, my beloved grandmother “Nana” passed away. Since then, I’ve grieved her and the election, spent time with family, and continued to root deeper into my purpose.
More than a writer or an intuitive, I am a space-holder and a seer. I’m here to notice the things that other don’t, or don’t acknowledge. I’m here to speak to what is felt but not named.
Nana was intuitive and sensitive, but stoic and solitary, like me. While she loved her family and friends, she needed time to recharge. She was anxious, but she was never afraid to ask the question that drove the conversation deeper and more true.
There was no one who got me quite like her.
Her memorial was a beautiful celebration with 60-plus people gathered from near and far to celebrate her memory and legacy.
If you want to read about an incredible woman, my eulogy is shared below.
I was overwhelmed when I tried to write this because there are simply too many memories of her to condense into just one speech.
In divine timing, I cranked this out on the flight on a supremely empty stomach (I had food poisoning two days before flying home).
It was a success, and I’m happy with how I captured her essence.
In Loving Memory
For 80 years, Eva Annette Hillis graced this earth with her piercing curiosity, love, and attention.
Her love wasn’t loud. It was a room you’d enter and feel completely safe. She had a way of making you feel like the most interesting person in the world, and she never asked for more than three french fries in return.
This kind of love was special to me as someone who expresses more quietly.
While I imagine becoming Nana was one of the highlights of her life; her kids and grandkids weren’t the only people she made to feel safe.
Her friends, entire extended family, and even clients received this kind of loving space held for them.
I was always impressed with her curiosity and even more, her MEMORY.
There was NO ONE more up-to-date on the K-12 social scene.
She remembered all of my teachers, my friends, my classmates, who was dating, who liked who, and she’d continue to ask about people far beyond my social circle that I forgot even existed. She even kept tabs on my exes, much to my dismay.
Facebook was one of the best things for her. She could put a face to the name of our friends and peek into our daily lives.
My friends all knew “Eva Hillis from Facebook.”
I remember being about 8 years old wedged between 4 year old Gilly (my sister) and Nana. After playing pick-a-favorite from a Toys R’ Us catalog, we decided to paint.
No screens, no cellphones, no agenda. Our bellies full of melon balls and deviled eggs.
Nana showed me what she painted and I remember being stunned that she could create something so beautiful. Life was already teaching me that you only got to be a couple things in life. She was a math person, a conversationalist, a good mom and grandma and sister, so how could she be so good at art, too?
Part of me was mad she was better than me, but there was a truer part of me that was electric. She got to be multi-faceted and multi-talented.
Way back when my favorite show was Rugrats, she insisted—relentlessly—that Angelica was the best character. Angelica was the older kid who “bullied” the young (mostly) boys.
Maybe, she was just trying to make me laugh, or maybe she wanted to pay respect to the observant and vocal women who get labeled the villain for simply stating the truth.
She didn’t fit into a box and she didn’t choose to. She spoke her mind and voiced her intuition. She noticed the kinds of things I noticed. She knew what wasn’t said.
She was there for us as her grandkids in all the obvious ways: the piano and dance recitals, the pom competitions, the graduations.
But she did not wait to celebrate us. She celebrated Julia Day, Gilly Day and Charlotte Day every month, taking us out to eat or a movie.
She was there for us in the less obvious ways: answering the phone every time we called, warning us when she would be busy for tax season, texting us BBJ when she was in Ohio and then “home again, home again jigged jig” when she got back from Tennessee so we knew we would see her soon, being the first and last person in the room every time we played piano, taking us on a “dry run” to a new job or appointment.
At Charlotte’s (my sister) ceremonies her senior year of high school, Nana got up to speak. She was of course, personal and sweet to Charlotte. But she was also hilarious and charming. She had sense of humor that was timeless, that spoke to every generation.
I would be remiss if I didn’t talk about how much she loved birthdays.
She hated surprises but she loved her birthday—month. It was her time to receive the kind of attention she gave so freely the rest of the year.
A silly hat was expected. A sash was a bonus.
She called every home-cooked meal her favorite meal, but I can tell you the best meal we ever had.
Her 70th birthday fell during my spring break, so I flew out to Florida and stayed with her and Aunt Judy. We left early to venture down the very trafficked, one single road on Fort Myers Beach to our dinner reservation.
We ate dinner on a rooftop, overlooking the Gulf of Mexico at sunset.
Aunt Judy brought her a birthday hat and she happily wore it from drinks all the way through the key lime pie.
One of my favorite quotes (by Kurt Vonnegut) says “I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.”
10 years later, you celebrated your 80th birthday with a sash, a hat, and your family.
A few weeks later, you asked me why we were moving back to California again. You asked us if we were sure. When I left, you held me close and said “Please, be happy.” There was a gravity to this wish as if it might be one of your last.
The last time I was home, my mom gave me your class ring and I wore it to visit you. You couldn't stop looking at it smiling, saying “I’m so happy you got that.”
We are the two Spartans in the family, one of many things we share.
I gave you my signed poetry book and you hugged it to your chest and said “I can’t wait to read this.”
In August, you left me a voicemail on my birthday, singing happy birthday like you do every single year.
“I hope you’re doing something really fun.” you said.
In your final days, I said my goodbyes in meditation. I was flooded with memories and things you loved, including that 70th birthday I had forgotten. I sat with you.
You told me your sign for me would be iridescent, rainbow clouds. I wondered how on earth I’d see rainbow clouds in foggy downtown San Diego.
Later that night, I played piano—Canon in D, Ave Maria, Hallelujah. I recorded myself singing Gravity by Sara Barellies.
My mom held the phone up to ear as you hugged Noah’s tigger, and you softly passed within the hour.
The next morning, I went onto my balcony and I saw a rainbow in the clouds.
I was shocked.
Of course, if you can be anything, why wouldn’t you be all the colors AND the clouds?
Why wouldn’t you sparkle?
2025 is upon us
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