My Ode to Iris

I started my pottery class today after nearly a year off. I've decided my back will just have to complain...I need the artistic outlet and my friends. The people in my class rock. They're an amazing mix of talented, outspoken women, and Ron, the brave man whom puts up with us all.
Newbies will come a go, but the core group remains the same. Iris was the mother of one of our core. She lived in Texas, but as she aged spent increasing time in Virginia.
Iris died while I was on my pottery hiatus. She collapsed from a aneurysm on her 90th birthday and died instantly in her daughter's hallway. She didn't make it to pottery class to see her party or cake.
Of course I was sad to hear Iris passed, but what landed a lump in my throat was that she didn't see her cake. Iris loved a party. On her 89th birthday, she fell asleep after eating two pieces of cake. She was still wearing her pink cardboard party hat and purple mardi gras beads. We didn't want to wake her, but also didn't want her to face-plow into her plate. So we watched, waited and giggled. Iris would have giggled, too.
Iris snoozed in class a lot. I choose to believe it was her way of telling us she was ready to go. She would sit at the table, listening to us bitch and complain about husbands, children and neighbors and laugh uncontrollably. But she'd listen with her eyes closed. Iris was tired from a hard, long life.
Iris grew up on a farm in Texas. She was no where near even 5 feet tall, but tough as nails. Her husband "wasn't a very nice man," but she didn't believe in divorce. So she endured. She endured until the doctors told her he was developing dementia. She put the bastard in a retirement home the next day and never looked back. Who knows how long ago that was.
Iris buried her son a few years ago after he died of a heart attack playing tennis. She watched her children marry and divorce. She watched her friends die. She watched the world grow.
Iris was an artist. She sculpted and painted and only God knows what else. She saw beauty in the world every day. And she told me she saw beauty in me and my work. She told me one day that my sculptures were art, and I blushed. That meant something to me. And I'll never forget it. She told me to enjoy my youth, but to not fear aging. She told me that every part of life held beauty.
Iris couldn't sculpt or throw any more. Her fingers were curled, her joints bulging from arthritis. And I'm fairly sure she couldn't see more than 2 feet in front of her. But she still painted occasionally in class, or just tagged along with her daughter for company. Iris would peruse the room, humming to herself, watching us work and giving us advice. Sometimes she'd begin talking to no one in particular, say something she found extremely hilarious, and let out the most high-pitched, barbie-esque giggle imaginable.
Iris reminded me of my Granny in many ways: beautiful, artistic, uplifting, feisty. Unique. Like Granny, Iris was a breath of fresh air. And not a class will go by that I won't remember her, or wonder if what I've created that day would make her smile and laugh that tiny laugh. I hope so.