She knew I was going, and she was proud.

When I knelt down next to her in her room and said, “I’ll come back to see you when I come home, but I’m going to spend a month in Ireland in a creative writing residency,” her eyes lit up, and she smiled. Though I hated to leave her, I knew that my grandmother was thrilled I was going to Ireland.

My grandmother passed away this morning at 5:15am, home time, after a years-long battle with Parkinson’s disease. At the same time, I feel her with me more now than ever.

I wish I were there with my family now. Part of me would give anything to be there, to be with my family, to come together, to solidify, to have someone who knew the juggernaut, the icon, the wonderful woman that was Donna May Milliman.

And yet, at the same time, I know that going home would do no good. My grandma isn’t back in the States. My grandma is here.

She’s here with the Irish brogues and the pints of Guinness and the corned beef and cabbage, which tasted just as good out of her kitchen as any Belfast pub I’ve yet found.

She’s here with that innate ability to turn a joke into a serious thing and a serious thing into a joke.

She’s here between the sea and the hexagonal rocks of the Giant’s Causeway, where I will sit tomorrow morning and think as the sun (with any luck) spreads its fingers through the clouds.

She’s in the pews of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Probably the Catholic one first, holding her shamrock rosary from the last time she visited Dublin with my grandfather, but then perhaps the Church of Ireland as well, because it’s a beautiful building, and there are less stairs to get into the cathedral. Always willing to donate her front yard to her grandchildren’s games of Kick the Can, Hide and Seek, or the improved game Ride The Wagon Down The Back Hill Until You Hit A Tree, she was more into spectating than participating: if there were less stairs to hike, the service would be that much the more enjoyable.

She’d be pointing out other phrases and idioms for me to add to my notebook, as we pointed out her phrases and idioms as we grew up. I’d toss them in the pages and let them meld together.

“Dead on.” “Glorioski.” “The balloon is up.” “Up the creek without a paddle.” “Tis and tisn’t.” “That went over like a lead ballon.” “Have a wee look round.” “Yahtzee!”

My grandma is free, in a way the Irish people are still struggling to be. While Northern Ireland and the Republic strive against each other for a sense of home and identity and unification, my grandma is finally exactly who and where she is supposed to be. No longer are her mind and body separated. No longer is the woman I love torn into two pieces, herself and the disease that stopped her from showing that self to the world. The walls have come down, the barbed wire has been trampled into the grass, the two disparate flags have been stitched together into one, and she has risen above the sectarian conflict of body and soul.

Even when I’m alone here in Ireland, I’m not, not really.

I will be on the other side of the ocean, but at the same time we’ve made this journey together, her shamrock rosary and my green-stamped passport.

Ireland, our Ireland.

Hers and mine.

I love you, Grandma. Thanks for making the journey with me.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.