Thinking of my Grandmother

Remembering a school project about asking a family member what it was like when they were younger: What did milk cost? What has changed? Interviewing Grandma at her glass kitchen table, her telling me answers that I recorded on some long-forgotten paper that has now become precious, lost in an inconsequential stream of homework.

I wish I could hear her voice again, her gentle cadence recalling girlhood. I wish I had her answers memorized.

Thinking about conversations on race and religion, knotty topics we'll never butt heads over again.

Seeing my baby son meet his other great-grandma, and wishing my Grandma had that quality time with him, too.

The postcards I bought for her everywhere I traveled but never managed to send. I saved them up to put in an album full of stories she can no longer read.

The autobiographical book of her remembrances on my list for Christmas, unbought and now unnecessary.

A Thanksgiving phone call I didn't make this year. Christmas glistening on the horizon, full of a million reminders of her absence.

Her presence in my heart, her ring on my finger as we drive through autumn near her part of the country. I can't even come close to forgetting.

November 18th, 2017

While breastfeeding my son:

Looking down at you, my lovely little elf baby. I am so grateful for now.

I’m so glad we found each other across space and time.

Remembering a few days before, reaching out into the ether for my grandmother, and she has been scattered back out into the universe. 

And to my mother: I finally understand, “You will always be my baby.” I wish you had made other choices, that we could be nearer each other in so many ways, and I love you. 

The anniversary of embarking upon a relationship with the father of my child.

Like spring come again, my summer baby in autumn, my Thanksgiving. Winter lies ahead. I am grateful, and delighted for the sparkle in those dark days to come.