Somewhere along the way hugging her began to feel like embracing a piece of origami in your palm.... wrap your fingers too tightly around it and all the delicate parts that create the whole will crumble into nothing. I remember holding her hand this past Easter, tracing my fingers back and forth over the satin-like skin stretched over the bones and trying not to admit to myself that time was short. I look at my hands now typing on the keyboard. They are my Grandmother's hands, only the younger version with the same long-tapered fingers and nail beds. I think Isabelle has them too, although at only three years old I suppose it may be wishful thinking.
Now I mourn the loss of the only person who called me "darling." I know that sounds silly, but in a way she was the final symbol of my childhood, as if the last remnant of that era of my life has left with her. I have vivid memories of her basement at Christmas with long tables lined with chairs, trying to cram all the family in. Her little house would be ninety degrees because of all the cousins and aunts and uncles and family smashed together within, all of us dressed up in our holiday finery because Grandma loved that. And of course, there are all of the countless things I associate with her..... the chip dip recipe, perfect African violets on a kitchen windowsill, tiny shoes, parakeets, the diamond -shaped clock in her living room, the old fridge in the basement, her willingness to laugh at herself, Saunders hot fudge, the Christmas village set up on her window seat, the famous candy jar, Hallmark cards, her frustrating stubbornness, immaculately kept houses, her unique way with words, and anything and everything involving family. For me she seemed the quintessential grandmother with more grandchildren, step-grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and step great-grandchildren then you could begin to comprehend. Yet, despite the huge numbers if she had her favorites I will be damned if I had any idea who they were; she made us all feel like her "darlings."
She wasn't perfect. In fact, she could be so down right bull-headed it could make you crazy, and I certainly did not agree with her views on everything. No, her passing has not made me see her with rose-colored glasses. But, God I loved her, and her funeral this past weekend was heart-wrenching. I am trying hard to grasp onto the positive aspects (and there are so many). I am so thankful for being her granddaughter, for getting to have thirty-two years with her, for having all of those amazing memories of perfect holidays at her house on Sunnybrook, for all of those dinners at our house in Oxford, for all of those card games of Skipbo and shared bowls of chip dip, for the endless hugs, kisses, and glowing praise that only grandmothers bestow. I am so thankful that she was blessed with such a long, beautiful, full, loving, and rich life and one in which she could leave with both peace and dignity. Mostly I cherish the memories of watching her gaze at her great granddaughter, Isabelle Elaine (her namesake) and with tears in her eyes utter "bless her heart."
The day of my grandmother's funeral I went to her grave site, and I placed a pink rose on her casket as it was lowered into the ground. At that moment the pain of her loss felt very great, almost overwhelming. Then I looked at the marker next to hers. It was her first Love's. My grandfather, a man I never was lucky enough to know. It occurred to me then that there are many kinds of loss, and who is to say which is the greater? Is it more painful to have known and loved my grandma so well and then lose her or to never of had the chance or opportunity to know my grandfather at all? I know what I believe. Yes, there will be many more tears, but I will do so mostly while smiling at the same time. I look forward to the day when I will see her again for it will be a joyful reunion, and perhaps my grandmother will introduce me to the man at her side for that is a meeting that is long overdue.
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