Remembering
Posted By admin on August 4, 2011
Today would have been my grandmother’s birthday. She died when I was twelve. She was the first person close to me who died, and her death was the first time I realized how long “never” was going to be. I stayed in her brother’s home the night before the funeral. They’d told me my aunt would be in after she arrived in the tiniest little town in the world, in Farthest-Off-the-Beaten-Track, Georgia. I’d seen this aunt before, but it had been such a long time that I had no memory of what she looked like. For various reasons, she’d moved away from family and lived in another state. (I understand those reasons now, and they kind of break my heart.) Anyway, she walked into my borrowed room, and I saw my grandmother’s face. At this moment, I’m crying again. I can’t imagine how harrowing it must have been for her, but she was kind, and I guess we grieved together.
Instead of remembering any more of that, I’m going to think of other things. The green Palmolive soap in Grandma’s green bathroom, the perfume she bought for me from her Avon lady, and kept on a shelf above her kitchen sink so I could dab a little behind my ears when I was at her house. The early morning smell of her coffee cooking, of sipping coffee that was mostly cream and a pinch of sugar out of her china saucer.
Green beans from her garden, and canned tomatoes in the dead of winter. Macaroni and cheese made the southern way, and ohmygosh, fried cornbread that looked exactly like the fish my father and grandfather picked up at the docks and brought home to toss in the deep fryer. (I always liked the cornbread best.)
I remember sitting at Grandma’s kitchen table while my older brother did his homework. She gave me a sheet of primary school paper and a thick pencil so I could “do my letters,” too.
Talking and talking and talking. And never once, not even for the slightest second, did I ever sense an instant’s impatience from her. I was so shy as a child my parents called me “Miss Mouse,” but with Grandma, I talked–I was going to say my head off–but I’m sure her head must have rang with my gab.
I can feel her soft arms around me, her baby fine hair that I inherited against my cheek when she hugged me. I can hear her now, starting the coffee in that old rattly percolator, her voice, calling my name–so, so softly because to this day, I tend to wake, gasping for air as if snatched from the dead.
Grandma told me stories that made me laugh, and she brushed my hair, and never hurt, though I do have her fine, tanglesome curls. She taught me by her actions because she was genuinely good, a soft, tender-hearted spirit that still lights my life because she’s part of me, and I’m part of her.
Grandma, I remember you.
Comments
Leave a Reply
Please note: Comment moderation is currently enabled so there will be a delay between when you post your comment and when it shows up. Patience is a virtue; there is no need to re-submit your comment.