I remember what it was like when she didn't have her walker. I remember the green and white chalk out back, in the coffee cans. Walk into the wet garage, old wet, and take a quick left. Only green and white. Where did all the other colors go? I always wondered. I remember the burgundy awning that would shade our drawings from summer heat. I remember her sitting on the porch.
Mom always taught us to be nice to Grandma Katy. That's not really the word... she just... let us know that she was to be given to. That it was part of our job, as her great-grand kids, to love her well and realize that she loved us well all the time. It was for us to say thank-you. To appreciate. To make sure we cleaned up when we were done with the videos and wooden blocks in the play room. When we went to Spoon street it was special. It was like we were giving credit where credit was due. This woman loved whole-heartedly into four generations. She was part of us.
Camel cigarettes still smell good to me even today. Back then I suppose they didn't, because it took my baby scrunched up face, along with my newly drug-informed cousin, that eventually motivated her to put up her last cigarettes. "Grandma, smoking is bad for you!!!" And after 70 years, she stopped. Just plain stopped. Funny that even since that real sacrifice, I like the scent because it makes me think of her. I must like her. I must've internalized that house, somehow, and what she kept in her apron pockets all of those years.
In the Shalom house we have a red couch. I reach over it to find the two gold lamp pulls that bring light into our space. Antique light illuminates the room and I only think about the table it used to stand on. Jeez, I don't even know how old this thing is. I don't know how old anything else was, either, that we cleared out of that condo in June. I really just don't know. I can't reconcile the frog that was found dead smushed between old quilts. I can't reconcile the military cuffs that used to be my great-grandfather's. I can't reconcile the morning bonnet or the mini tequila bottles or the "I love you Grandma" birthday cards. And I DEFINITELY can't reconcile all of us going through her stuff all at the same time. Oh good gracious, she would have a cow. She would just have a cow. Think of all this tissue paper we're just crumbling up and throwing away.
There's a picture of her on my phone that I can't get myself to get rid of. It's not even OF her, stupid Anna. It's of orange juice. Her face is seen in the upper right corner just looking at me through those wide-rimmed glasses. I usually wondered what her inner monologue sounded like. I knew that she wanted me to get the right brand of orange juice. Tropicana, no pulp. But I also wondered, in that moment, what she thought of me, and if I was doing a good enough job of loving her. I was thankful for that day. That day was a rite of passage. The first rite of passage is being taller than Grandma. haha. That became easier as she got older and seemed to shrink faster than anyone anticipated. Or at least that I anticipated. The second rite of passage was running errands for her. I loved to think that I was finally like my mom and the rest of the cousins; she trusted me to go out and pick up what she needed. Finally, I could do something for her. Finally, at 19, I could start to thank her for all the cool things she did for us. Finally, there was a way I could maybe.. improve the situation. Ways I had been looking for as I really started to notice her struggling.
It really wasn't fair for Grandma. It isn't fair for anyone, really. Everyone should have the ability to keep their dignity for as long as possible, and she was so independent! SO independent. I mean, this is the woman who went off to her own marriage ceremony on the back of a motor cycle. This is a woman who went through raising small babies while her husband was in the military. This was a woman who fought in the midst of prohibition and the Great Depression and snobby great-grandkids who really never appreciated why on earth you'd save a zip-lock bag. She was sassy, too. I liked that about her. Her love language was bossiness. I... think. It's kind of a debate.
The last time I spent one on one time with her she told me about Albania. It was so hard for me to keep up with who was who and when they were with who and why. She kind of assumed I knew those things. I wished I wasn't so out of touch with our family tree. I saw her eyes move back and forth with mine and it was obvious we weren't on the same page at all. Not like that one Thursday when she told me stories about her old one room school house. Not like that day. No, she wasn't getting me this time. And I wasn't very well getting her.
I wear the crown necklace sometimes. My fingers reach up to my neck and I can feel the gold chain beneath my fingers. A gift, passed down to me from the family tree that I came from. A gift, the provision that was passed down to me as well; opportunity to live well and to be known. A gift, her name that is part of my name and part of my make-up.
I don't know what it will be like this Christmas when we don't have to pour a quarter cup of coffee anymore, or sit playing with our Christmas presents by the forever coffee table. There was always gum drops on that thing when I was little. One day along the way she switched to take 5 bars. Real different, but still awesome. That coffee table is with my mom now, holding on to it for me for my first place. I don't really want my first place though. I don't want to be older. When I think about the condo, I just want her back in it I don't want to be on my own and grown up. I just want her back in it.
For a woman dearly loved and dearly missed.
For a woman dearly loved and dearly missed.
Be grateful for those you love and for those who love you well.
-Anna Catherine.
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