Sharing...my grandmother

I've always believed death to be a very private matter.  I've also always thought, much to the chagrin of many around me, that death is a part of life.  And though it may seem that I'm minimizing what it means to lose a loved one, I can't help but see it is a gentle passing from this one, physical realm into the next, spiritual one.

On that note, I'm ready to share...

My grandmother was a force to be reckoned with.

In all my memories of her, I can never recall a time when she seemed weak, defeated, or tired.

She was a true fighter from a tender age, growing up with five siblings.  She spoke highly of her mother and father, praised her brothers and sisters, and cherished the time she spent with them.  Though the stories from long ago certainly did raise an eyebrow when we heard them for the umpteeth time, she never allowed the injustices that she suffered to be silenced; never allowed that time to be forgotten.  What happened to her in a lifetime, the good, the bad, and the extraordinary, was part of what made her, her.  And it was all magical.

My grandmother used to warm me up, wrap me in her arms, and cradle me in her ample bosom.  She enveloped us all in that warmth, riddling the house with her infectious laughter. 

She used to keep the best things: a heart-shaped plaque from my Mom that taught me the word “ally”; hand-made Afghans; dull knives with wooden handles; a television older than me.  She taught me what teak furniture was, how important a magnifying mirror is for the bathroom, and that freshly squeezed orange juice was well worth the effort.  She showed me how to make goulash, vanille kipfl, and apple strudel.  I make them now and inevitably think of her, recall the smells from her kitchen, have the urge to sprinkle a little sugar on my salad.

I’ll remember the years we shared, sleeping in adjoining bedrooms; I’ll remember the time she spent explaining the characters at length from All My Children; I’ll remember the love advice she poured on me so I’d listen; I’ll remember the hilarious songs she used to sing.  I’ll remember how magical it felt to be in Austria, surrounded by the country she came from.  I’ll remember that it felt like I was coming home, remembered the language somehow, and felt as though she was right there beside me.  Because I suppose she was…and I suppose she is now.

I wore a sweater she knit for me a few weeks ago and proudly told everyone that she’d made it, not thinking about how very long ago that was.  I didn’t think about the failing eyesight and the memory lapse: I only thought about HER.  Because we aren’t the things that happen to us, but the people we are inside, the people we were in our glory, the people we are becoming.  I missed her ferociously as I put my finger through the hole that wasn’t stitched quite right.  I missed her ferociously as I meticulously picked off fluff balls.  How much longer will this sweater last?  Will it be long enough?

Maybe it never really feels long enough.  The love stays though.  And I do love her.