Hi Grandma,
I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately. I know that sounds strange considering I have no memories of the physical you. You passed just a month after my fifth birthday so many years ago. But I’ve never stopped thinking of you really. Every time I stop at your headstone in the cemetery to say “hi,” pick the weeds, and just think about what could have been, I feel like we’re talking and knowing each other, but there’s so much I’ll never uncover because there’s so much that never was.
I’m not sure what it is about walking in the cemetery I like so much or that’s so comforting to me, Grandma. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the reverence for life I feel there. Or the obvious reminders of how fragile life is and the motivation that provides me to not squander it. Maybe it’s simply the realness the atmosphere forces on me as I walk through the iron gates—the realness that death may be inherent, but it’s not the end. Instead, it’s a return to the beginning.
There is no sidestepping death, right, Grandma? I wish there was because I find myself missing you more these days than ever before—or at least missing the idea you. The potential of you. The possibilities of knowing you. We never got that chance, to seep into one another’s bones, memories, and souls over a long period of time. I know you exist in those places; I just don’t know how to reach you there. And I feel driven to.
I wish I had live memories of your face. And recollections of your laugh. Of your scent and the touch of your hand. Of the tone of your voice. The gait of your walk. The look of your clothes and how you wore them. I don’t remember your presence, Grandma, but I want nothing more than to.
The world you left long ago, you wouldn’t recognize today. It’s changed dramatically, as you’d expect it to over 50 years, but much wasn’t for the better. Especially now. We’re in a strange, divided, often ugly, bitter, lonely time. We’ve never been more connected yet more apart. Never been more intelligent yet so unaware and stubbornly blind. We’ve never been so rich yet so destitute—in wealth, character, and action. And still, Grandma, it’s a wonderful life and a fantastic world to explore. It’s that’s dynamic that makes it worth living. I wish you had been here to pass the days with. To learn from. To listen to. To believe in. To rely on. I would have given you all those in return.
My only true memory of you is one I don’t know if is even real, and if it is, I’d rather it wasn’t. It’s of Brooke and I sitting in the back seat of a car. I can smell cigarettes and gum—seemingly the combined odor of every car of that time. We were following an ambulance, which I’ve told myself was taking you to the hospital. But I’m not sure. It’s a fuzzy, hazy image, and one I tend to muddy up even when I ask for clarification. Accurate or not, little by little, that memory has become a painting exposed to too much sunlight, wind, and rain—faded in its vibrancy and detail, but still powerful and everlasting.
It’s hard for me to believe you were just 57 when you had to go. I’m just four years younger than that now. I’m sorry it’s taken so many years to write you directly. Funny, because this is what I do for a living, Grandma, write. You’ve turned up so many times in my words elsewhere, but I’m sorry to say, I’ve kept you at a distance until now on such a personal level. I’m not sure why. I guess I was afraid of where it would take me.
My sister and I never had strong grandparent relationships. None to speak of, to be honest. You were gone so early. My paternal grandfather was gone before I was even born, and there just was never access to the others. At times, I convinced myself I wasn’t missing anything I wasn’t getting somewhere else, but I know now that wasn’t true. I missed the influence, the ideas, the wisdom, and the exchanges of family history, pride, and love that goes with having a grandpa and grandma. I missed the security and the safety.
I’ve seen how much grandparents mean and have meant to my own kids, and I’m a grandfather myself now, Grandma. He’s a wonderful little boy my daughter Mikah gifted us. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being part of his life for as long as life lets me. To making his path less complicated and congested. To enabling him to believe in himself always. To trust his potential, his worth, and his purpose. That’s what grandparents do, isn’t it? Plant the tree their descendants draw shade from? I wish I’d done a better job of that as a dad, but I’ll keep trying.
I’ve known so many people through the years whose grandparents lifted them up, extended them, challenged them, and enriched them. People who might not have made it otherwise. My dad, your son-in-law, has often said his grandparents meant everything to him, and knowing the cards he was dealt, I believe him. The same with my wife. She says her Grandma Ruthie saved her life as a teenager. She died young, too, and I’ve never heard a group of siblings speak so highly and fondly and with as much love as her uncles and aunt have through the decades. I’ll admit, Grandma, it’s made me envious.
When we’re visiting in the cemetery, I ask you often what you’d think of me now. If you’d approve? If you’d be proud of what I became? Of how I’ve conducted myself. Of what I believe in and don’t. Would you want to spend time with me? Would we make each other laugh? Would we share secrets? Would we gossip and giggle? Would you have broken through my little-boy shyness and found anything special to draw out? Would you have recognized yourself in me?
You should know your daughter is and has been good mother. The same is true of your son-in-law. They started with very little but always gave so much. You should know your other daughters and sons and grandkids were and are good, smart, talented, hardworking people. You probably know already, but we’re opinionated and passionate. We’re individuals and unique. We don’t always all see eye to eye, but I don’t think that matters much in the end. We’re family and attached.
You should know they treated me well, and I have fond memories of them all. There are traits in them I’ve admired and secretly coveted, too. Everything from Gary’s magnetic personality to Brenda’s effortless ability to spread joy. From Jerry Lynn’s patience and effort to teach his younger cousins the finer points of life to Daryl’s artwork to Roger’s musicianship to Cindy’s unwavering passion to Dennis’ humor to Dicky giving me a summer job to Tony’s athletic ability to Ronnie’s much appreciated matter-of-fact approach of showing me how to shoot a basketball. I’m the clan’s last-born grandson, Grandma, and Brooke is its last-born granddaughter. I know we benefited from having so much of your blood available to us.
I don’t hear as many stories about you these days. Our family, like a lot of families, has drifted some and splintered into smaller pockets. The big gatherings are fewer and farther between, and that’s a shame. There was a bond that doesn’t exist as strongly anymore. Maybe that’s why I visit you so much. I’m yearning for that connection as I age. Maybe that’s why I find myself walking in your direction so often these days on the less-traveled gravel road from my house to your resting place. The dirt under my steps hasn’t changed since you were here. The farm fields that the gravel road borders are still rolling and magnificent. And the path that road leads yo remains constant. When seemingly everything else shifts and morphs so drastically by the second now—and often for the worse—I guess I need the stability of our visits.
I’m sorry you passed so young. I’m sorry you couldn’t experience more that life gives us. I’m sorry we never grew older together. I’m sorry for the time we lost. But I’m never sorry you are my grandmother, or that I am your grandson, whether I remember your face, voice, and presence or not. We’ve had long, meaningful, entertaining, tearful, and entirely honest conversations in my head and heart. We’ll continue to until we can’t. Then, it’s my sincere desire we’ll do all our talking face to face.
With love,
Your grandson
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