the things you remember.
My grandmother died in October of 2003.
She was well into her 80's at that point, so on one hand, the idea of her passing became more and more inevitable with each day, month, and year that came and went; on the other, who doesn't imagine sometimes that their grandma will live forever?
But she didn't, and so it goes. It has been two years and a bit.
Tomorrow night, I'm headed to a party. The dress I am wearing is one that my mom and I designed together and she spent hours and hours sewing. It's gorgeous, really. She did an amazing job.
The vintage movie star-ish feel that I wanted it to have is realized beautifully, and when I put it on, I feel like a princess.
I was surfing the web tonight looking for pictures of women in formalwear from that era -- late forties, early fifties -- in order to try and find a hairstyle I could throw together (in a hurry, after a full day at work) that would suit my outfit. I went through gazillions of .jpgs on my laptop, stretched across my bed, chin propped up on one hand, dreaming.
And I thought of my Nonna.
I wondered what special things she had owned and worn, what glittery bits she added to her fingers, neck, and hands before she went out for the night, how she smelled, what waxy red lipstick she used... everything about the times she stepped out into frosty winter evenings for parties and moments and memories.
Would she have loved a dress like mine?
By the time I knew her, she was into her fifties and fairly staid in her tastes and behaviours (though she did develop a penchant for wearing insanely bright colours in her later years). I see pictures of her as a young woman -- a bride, a wife, a mother -- and she always seems a little demure and reserved.
Nothing like me, in that way. I tend towards lip gloss and cleavage and red toenails and dangly earrings.
I do have engagement rings, pearls, and a few other little things that I can hold in my hand that she once held in hers; I close my eyes and try to remember her face and mannerisms. But who knows what she was like when she was my age? My idea of Nonna goes back to my own babyhood and no further.
What woman was she at 31?
I missed her this evening because I wished I could show her my dress. I would swish and twirl and watch her clasp her hands in delight and ask for tales of 1948 or 1952 or some such year where the skirts were full and cheeks were pinched and rouged.
This will be my third Christmas without her. It makes no sense that it should be harder than the first or the second, but since when did the heart ever make sense?
This is a piece I wrote about her in 2004. I re-read it tonight and cried again.
Goodnight.
nonna.feb 2004
I lost my grandmother today. Which is odd, because she actually died about five and a half months ago.
I remember when my mother called to tell me she was gone. I'd just
returned from a trip to a friend's wedding up north, and it had
happened the second night I was away. They didn't try to get ahold of
me on my travels, because there wasn't much I could have done;
certainly, there was no reason to rush home, because the memorial
wasn't going to be for another week.
I was shocked at first, then sad,
then somewhat numb. Despite all her frailty, my Nonna was the type of
old gal who seemed like she was going to live forever. My Poppa
actually hoped that she'd go first, just so she'd never have to be
alone, but somehow I never believed that would be the case. Until it
happened.
She'd spent her last couple of years in full-time nursing
care, since she had a host of health problems, and not much facility in
dealing with them. She would exist on tea and toast, unless pushed to
consume more. My grandfather was much more energetic and capable than
she, partly because he was eight years younger, and partly because he
had a different attitude towards life. Where she was delicate, he was
tough. Where she was prone to sadness, he was prone to
practicality.
She got smaller and paler over time, while he just seemed
to maintain his robust colour and unwieldy laugh. Even with all his
energy, though, he couldn't handle caring for her alone. Her move was
one that brought both guilt and relief to her children, but it seemed
the only real choice.
Prior to her stay at the home, I'd spent quite a bit of time with
her, chatting and visiting when I would come by their place every
couple of weeks to do a top-to-bottom housecleaning. She'd always been
a very "grandma grandma"; she would remember your birthdays, slip you
candy, listen to all your stories, and praise you unequivocally. I was
the only granddaughter, so my place in the firmament was lofty and
precious. She believed me to be the 'smartest, prettiest thing', and
even when I wasn't, I could rely on her to have more faith in me than I
did in myself.
Our conversations took a different tone during those
later visits, though; I was an adult now, no longer a child, and she
seemed to feel that it was important that she open up to me more, and
share her life with me in a different way. It was strange and cool all
at once, really. Her world was finding colour in my eyes, where it had
been old-movie black and white before.
Her decline prior to her death was not one I dealt with well; I'd
always had a hard time with watching people I loved get old. Shaking
hands and graying heads were reminders of a nearing end, and I refused
to go there in my head. I saw her less often in those last months than
I should have, but that isn't something that can be changed now.
I wrote a poem for her funeral folder, as requested, and designed
the pages we would hand out to those who came to pay their respects. My
grandfather loved what I wrote, and asked me to read it at the actual
service. I did as he asked, and my parents told me that my reading was
the only thing that really made him sob that day.
I did everything I
did that week with uncommon composure; at least uncommon for me, as I
was normally given to tears at moments like these. And I had a few,
most notably at her graveside. I was pretty cool about everything for
the most part, though. I felt sad, but not incapacitated; I
simply accepted her end, and went on with my life.
During the months that followed her death, I came into possession of
a few things that belonged to her: a couple of pearl necklaces, an
emerald ring, and a bagful of her old bottles of perfume and talcum
powder. My mother thought of me when she was clearing away all the
cosmetic acoutrements, since I'm a rather girly-girl, and could add her
things to my shelves and shelves of lotions and potions. Yardley '
English Lavender', Elizabeth Arden 'Blue Grass', and Violet Water were
her scents of choice.
None of them really suited my tastes, but the
packaging was kitschy and fun, so I crowded them in next to my Demeter
and Annick Goutal.
And that was that. Christmas had its emotional moments, as did their
wedding anniversary in December. My grandfather found it hard to
believe she was really gone, most of the time, and when he would
remember, he would go silent and sad.
My parents would make him laugh
about her memory again, at times like those, dredging up stories of her
quirks and oddities until he smiled and told stories of his own. That
was their way of dealing with it, but I didn't need to cope. I was
fine.
This morning, I was in a rush, having slept in past my alarm. I'd
wanted to get to work early to get a few things done, but that
opportunity had slipped away with a few hits of the snooze button. Now
I was pressed for time, and rushing around like the proverbial headless
chicken. My clumsy grab for my Angel perfume brought chaos to the
bathroom, as a couple of the bottles around it headed rapidly for the
floor.
Nothing broke but the top of a tiny bottle of Violet Water,
shaped like a wee cottage. I think my parents had gotten it for my
Nonna years ago, while on vacation in Oregon. The familar smell filled
the air, making me blink rapidly, as though the fragrance were passing
through my eyes and filling up my head.
And then it happened.
I don't remember exactly what I did, or exactly how it began, but I
was weeping before I knew it.
A thousand thoughts rushed in on me like
an awful wave. It was her, telling me about wanting to please her
mother, and not feeling like she'd managed it all the time. It was her,
telling me about hurts she'd experienced over the years that were still
a part of her heart at 84. It was her, telling me how beautiful I was,
and saying that she didn't understand why any boy would want to break
my heart;
I was her granddaughter, after all....I was a catch. It was
her, sad-eyed as she watched my parents grieve a difficult time in
their lives. It was her, holding my Poppa's hand, as they walked out
the front door of their church. It was her, so old, so small, in a
picture I took a month before she died, surrounded by my family, but
not me. I held the camera, I kept my distance. And I had, for months.
I went to the mantle, where I'd kept the funeral folder I'd
designed. I wanted to read the poem I'd written again, so that I could
recover my nostalgic reserve. But it wasn't there, and I remembered I'd
put it away a couple weeks previous. I tried to find it on my
computer, where I'd done the template, but I'd deleted it to recover
the drive space shortly after I'd made it.
Who does that? I thought.
Who gets rid of these things? Finally, I found something; the picture
I'd taken was still in a file on my C drive, and I opened it up. There
she was. I got later and later for work, sitting there, staring at her
face.
When I finally went to finish getting ready, something in me had
changed, just like that. Suddenly, I was without a grandmother. Not in
the way I had been, accepting the well-wishes of her old friends, and
of my friends, smiling with the right amount of sadness. Now I was
hurt, and feeling left behind.
Today, I miss my Nonna. Today, I miss the way she'd say, "Shalom!"
in a funny voice when we argued. Today, I miss the strange sweatsuits
she wore, with flowers and kittens emblazoned in unnatural pinks.
Today, I miss her wrinkled hands, playing old hymns on her electric
organ, before she stopped trying because they shook too much. Today, I
miss the way she'd chuckle at all my stories of lost love, but never
offer useless advice. Today, I miss her wonky penmanship on birthday
cards and housecleaning paycheques, and the "X's and "o"s after 'Poppa
and Nonna' on everything she'd ever sent me. I even miss the way she
dropped everything she ate half on the floor, and half on her shirt.
She was not perfect, and her life was not one that always took
a steady path. She felt sorry for herself now and then; sometimes
justifiably so. But she loved me well.
She will never watch me walk down the aisle, or hold my babies in
her arms, and sometimes I wonder if all the things she'd wished for
me are ever going to come true.
But I had something that a lot of my
betrothed and child-laden friends missed out on: I had a
sweet grandmother, and though she is gone now, she has finally taken up
a permanent place in the part of my heart reserved for the love that
brings both quiet pain, and gentle joy.
I love you, Nonna, and I'm sorry it took me so long to cry for you the way I should have from the beginning.
11:13:32 PM 
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