backrubs & blueberry cake.
I don't know the memory that is etched deepest on my bones
when it comes to you, Rosie. But I know you're there, so many times
and in so many ways that I wonder if any of the etchings would
be legible if they could be uncovered and read. At this point,
it's just memory etched over memory, love over love.
It's hundreds of tiny things.
Like the morning back-rubs. You loved giving back-rubs. Especially in the mornings when we’d just woken up. Sometimes we’d sleep in your bed when you visited our house, or when we visited yours – but if we didn’t, you would whistle for us as soon as you were awake. You would whistle, whistle, whistle until we ran in, sleepy-eyed. I’d crawl in the warm sheets of the Queen-sized bed and I’d tuck my little 6-year-old body next to yours, relishing the fact that I got you all to myself for a little while. Your hands were so smooth and glossy, the age spots showing the lifetime of love you'd given.
[I loved those hands, and in the last several years of your life I held them often. I held your hands tight and you'd look at me and say "Your hands are so warm, honey! Laura! Laura, feel her hands! They're so warm!"]
Or the way that you loved your coffee with a little cream or milk, no sugar…because you said you were “sweet enough already"...and God, you were.
What about your kitchen? There was nothing fantastical about your galley kitchen. It wasn't renovated, it wasn't at all functional by today's standards - not even close. But I can still smell the meatballs and tomato sauce simmering on the gas stove. I feel the worn, sticky linoleum under my bare feet; can hear you chiding me for not wearing socks - "you're going to catch a cold, sweet-haht!", you would say - and I'd laugh at how I exasperated you. Gramma, I can still see you, breathing and smiling and creaming butter & sugar by hand at the table, while you half-watch The Price Is Right on that tiny box TV in the corner.
Remember how you would let me just put butter on my spaghetti and have a meatball on the side? You didn’t mind that I ate the frosting off your chocolate cake and left most of the cake behind. How you always made sure there was Extra peppermint gum in the microwave cabinet drawer for us to pilfer. Such silly ways you spoiled us, and it meant everything.
And who could forget the taste of that blueberry cake you always made and had on hand when we visited? Mom would cut us slices of it for breakfast and you would smile, eye her disapprovingly and say, "Oh Beth, those are so thin the kids could read through them!" Mom would sigh, cutting them a little bigger, indulging you even further on behalf of your grandchildren.
[You and Mom had this quiet understanding where we kids were concerned. I think it was because you both loved us differently, but somehow the same. There was always such love and respect between the two of you. You loved her like a 3rd daughter. And I promise you, she loved you just as fiercely.]
I could go on and on about all the little things, all the conversations that we had that mattered, all the silly jokes and goofy memories. But as I reflected on losing you - shortly after we all said goodbye to you on this earth on that February morning - I wrote this to you, and have since added to it. This is just a piece of it...
Did you know that I see your face in mine sometimes? When I smile or when I'm serious. Not so much in the in-between emotions. It's in the extremes, in the both ends of the spectrum, which makes blinding sense to me when I really think about it. Because you were both, too.
WATER to parched hearts in need of love,
and
FIRE if anyone crossed someone you loved.
I’d like to think I inherited that from you. Thank you.
.xo I'll love you forever.
when it comes to you, Rosie. But I know you're there, so many times
and in so many ways that I wonder if any of the etchings would
be legible if they could be uncovered and read. At this point,
it's just memory etched over memory, love over love.
It's hundreds of tiny things.
Like the morning back-rubs. You loved giving back-rubs. Especially in the mornings when we’d just woken up. Sometimes we’d sleep in your bed when you visited our house, or when we visited yours – but if we didn’t, you would whistle for us as soon as you were awake. You would whistle, whistle, whistle until we ran in, sleepy-eyed. I’d crawl in the warm sheets of the Queen-sized bed and I’d tuck my little 6-year-old body next to yours, relishing the fact that I got you all to myself for a little while. Your hands were so smooth and glossy, the age spots showing the lifetime of love you'd given.
[I loved those hands, and in the last several years of your life I held them often. I held your hands tight and you'd look at me and say "Your hands are so warm, honey! Laura! Laura, feel her hands! They're so warm!"]
Or the way that you loved your coffee with a little cream or milk, no sugar…because you said you were “sweet enough already"...and God, you were.
What about your kitchen? There was nothing fantastical about your galley kitchen. It wasn't renovated, it wasn't at all functional by today's standards - not even close. But I can still smell the meatballs and tomato sauce simmering on the gas stove. I feel the worn, sticky linoleum under my bare feet; can hear you chiding me for not wearing socks - "you're going to catch a cold, sweet-haht!", you would say - and I'd laugh at how I exasperated you. Gramma, I can still see you, breathing and smiling and creaming butter & sugar by hand at the table, while you half-watch The Price Is Right on that tiny box TV in the corner.
Remember how you would let me just put butter on my spaghetti and have a meatball on the side? You didn’t mind that I ate the frosting off your chocolate cake and left most of the cake behind. How you always made sure there was Extra peppermint gum in the microwave cabinet drawer for us to pilfer. Such silly ways you spoiled us, and it meant everything.
And who could forget the taste of that blueberry cake you always made and had on hand when we visited? Mom would cut us slices of it for breakfast and you would smile, eye her disapprovingly and say, "Oh Beth, those are so thin the kids could read through them!" Mom would sigh, cutting them a little bigger, indulging you even further on behalf of your grandchildren.
[You and Mom had this quiet understanding where we kids were concerned. I think it was because you both loved us differently, but somehow the same. There was always such love and respect between the two of you. You loved her like a 3rd daughter. And I promise you, she loved you just as fiercely.]
I could go on and on about all the little things, all the conversations that we had that mattered, all the silly jokes and goofy memories. But as I reflected on losing you - shortly after we all said goodbye to you on this earth on that February morning - I wrote this to you, and have since added to it. This is just a piece of it...
I can only hope I've inherited at least some of your strength, Rosie, because I know I'm going to need a heaping measure of it to deal with losing you. You've inspired me, encouraged me, loved me for so many years. 28. 28 years, 336 months of living alongside you. Of knowing that your grandchildren were one of the best things in your life.
I've never lived in a world without you. I don't know how. I didn't want to see you in your casket at the funeral home, but at the same time, I couldn't leave without looking at you. And then I went back up to you 4 or 5 more times. You looked like you in some ways, but in other ways not at all. I wanted to touch you but I couldn't bring myself to touch more than your shirtsleeve. I was afraid of you being cold. Lincoln was cuddled against my chest as I walked up with Dad, and I sobbed when I first saw you.
I wanted you to wake up.
I wished Cait was with me.
I wanted you back.
I will always want you back.
I was afraid that you didn't know how much you meant to me, how much you shaped me. I'd never see you light up when I walked in the room again. Because for whatever reason, I made you smile. You called out everything good in the people you loved.
I know I will miss you forever. I'll miss your sweet face, your beautiful heart, and the way you loved me. Like no one else did. I felt so infinitely important when I was with you, because that's how you loved. No one walked away from you unchanged.
Fire and water.
WATER to parched hearts in need of love,
and
FIRE if anyone crossed someone you loved.
I’d like to think I inherited that from you. Thank you.
.xo I'll love you forever.
Ugh. Erica. I understand this so well. I lost my precious Grandpa suddenly in Nov. and it feels like my heart will never heal. I understand when you say "I've never lived in a world without you. I don't know how. I didn't want to see you in your casket at the funeral home, but at the same time, I couldn't leave without looking at you."
ReplyDeleteIt's hard, and you are not alone. <3
Thank you Tara. I'm so sorry for your loss. A grandparent's love is something that is quite different from all the other loves, isn't it? Someday, one sweet day, we will see them again.
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