I’ve always been a fan of the notion that we keep the spirit of those we love alive when we keep them fresh in your memory.

Geography can be a trigger. Since I’ve lived in the same place for going on fifty years, the spirit of so many friends loiter in the streets and parks I traverse every day. Habit as well. Every time I feel like having an aimless chat, I think of my mom, my go-to person for passing time on the phone. Of course, the calendar is a predictable reminder. Mine is littered with birthdates, death dates, and memorable events in between that I’ve flagged with the intent of resurrecting memory.

Still, some people drift so far beyond our scope that they don’t rise in our mind as often as we’d like. We kind of forget how important they were to us; how important their spirit still can be.

I embarked on a new project this year, a different slant on my concern for folks in the carceral system. My endeavor brought the unexpected delight of reviving the spirit of my beloved grandmother. Since this Sunday, September 7, is Grandparent’s Day, it seems a good time to share how this came about.

I didn’t have a large grandparent pool. Never met my father’s folks, who were estranged for reasons never explained. My mother’s dad died when I was nine, so he’s little more than a genial shadow.

After he died, my grandmother, Louise Eustace, moved to a retirement village only ten miles away; an easy trek for a boy on his bike ever eager for escape. Through my adolescence, college years, and early adulthood, my grandmother’s apartment was my sanctuary. Though she would never claim favorites, I felt special status sitting on her jalousied porch, overlooking the picturesque artificial lake, sipping a root beer float, listening to stories of Grandma’s girlhood. Or her long and happy marriage. Or tales of her son the priest, her daughter the nun, her son died in World War II, and her youngest, the beauty who married a rascally man. Sometimes we’d simply sit in the quietude while she mouthed the rosary while fingering her beads, or softly breathed some jewel from the American songbook.

My grandmother wasn’t a hero or an activist or an influencer, or even particularly assertive. She was simply the most contented person I’ve ever known. She bore the burdens of life stoically, and always praised the goodness that fell upon her. I cannot recall her making a single complaint. Given my penchant to be an angry young man, my grandmother proved a saving grace. When she died, at peace, asleep, in her own bed, I inhaled as much of her spirit as my lungs could hold.

But nearly forty years gone, her spirit in me had dwindled. Until..

This was the idea. Give a monthly stipend for a year or two to returning citizens (the currently preferred term for people just out of prison) to help them get on their feet. No strings attached. Finding a job, a place to live, setting up house can be much more difficult for returning citizens than the rest of us because: though they’ve paid their ‘debt to society,’ society too often holds a grudge.

I shopped the idea to some fellow advocates in carceral circles, and eventually met Larry Gennari who runs Project Entrepreneur at Boston College, a kind of Shark Tank for felons. “No, no. You’ve got this all wrong.” Larry doesn’t mince words. “Sure, returning citizens need money, but they also need support, and they need responsibilities.” Larry spun my idea into a fellowship, with an application process and signed contracts that clarify what fellows are expected to do, and what I will do in return. “Give it a name. That adds caché, prestige.”

A few mornings later I woke to the perfect title. “Louise Eustace Fellowship.” What my grandmother offered me: the wisdom of calm patience in the face of impetuous youth, is exactly what so many men coming out of prison need. (Really, it’s what all of us need.)

Within a few months of gestating, I had a dozen applications from returning citizens; all of whom had committed violent crimes in their youth, used their prison time to redirect their lives, and are hellbent on successfully reintegrating into society. I selected three, and since May we’ve developed a bond of financial and mutual support that aligns with my expectations.

What’s transpired beyond my expectations is how much more alive my grandmother is in my life. Every time I describe the fellowship, whenever we reference our guiding principle of calm, unwavering support, my grandmother comes alive for me, fresh as ever. And that is wonderful.