Several years ago, when she was moved from assisted living to a locked-down memory care facility, I found myself in the upstate New York basement at my aunt’s house, sorting through my grandmother’s things.

We came across a yellow teapot, in beautiful condition but obviously very old. It looked like it had been treasured.

It was handed to me in an on-the-spot bequeathing. I loved it.

And we carried on. Sorting and talking, discovering and connecting.

Some time later, we found a painting – a painting of the yellow teapot. The title of the painting was “Fanny’s Teapot” and quickly, my aunts filled in the missing pieces: Fanny was my grandmother’s grandmother. My grandmother must have come into possession of the teapot previously owned by her mother’s mother, and kept it safe, honored, revered. She painted a portrait of the teapot.

It was a delightful moment – we all were thrilled by the discovery and connection.

But the surprises weren’t over.

Not 20 minutes later, as I was setting the teapot and painting aside to come home with me, I opened the teapot. There was something inside. Something unmistakable: human ashes.

I hurried over to my aunt and showed her. We looked at each other, stunned, momentarily mortified, then instantly intrigued. Together, we all decided these ashes must belong to my grandmother’s mother. It was the only thing that made sense.

In my hands were five generations of women. My grandmother had placed her mother’s ashes in her grandmother’s teapot. And painted a portrait of the teapot.

Whoa.

In December, I installed these shelves at my house and put my great-great-grandmother’s teapot and my grandmother’s painting up together. I spread my great-grandmother’s ashes in the river behind my house on the day of a powerful solar eclipse. Two months later, my grandmother died.

I know that on Saturday, my grandmother found her way home. She returned to a place of identity and heritage where she can heal and rest.

Death, I know, is just another stage of life.