My paternal grandmother and I never shared a particularly close bond. The circumstances of our lives ensured that she was far more involved with my cousins. As a child, this reality was difficult to accept. Her birthday cards often misspelled my name, and when I once allowed myself to be vulnerable and cried in her presence, she simply took a long drag from her cigarette and asked, “What did you do to deserve that?”
Unlike the grandparents in heartwarming films, she wasn’t one to celebrate my achievements. She attended my wedding, but her presence felt distant. Looking back, it’s almost amusing that she forgot to wear her dentures, but at the time, her indifference felt just as uncomfortable as the scratchy lace of my veil.
I can’t explain why those moments linger in my mind, but they do.
When my father informed us last week that she was gravely ill, I tried to recall happier memories. However, those fond recollections were not of our time together but rather of moments spent with loved ones. My dad mentioned that she never missed any of his football games, while aunts and friends reminisced about her delicious pies and ravioli soup. She was straightforward, a no-nonsense woman, and I can certainly relate to that.
Last night, I dreamt of beginnings and endings. In this dream, my grandmother visited my home, a place she had never seen, and wrapped me in an embrace I had never experienced. We stood in the kitchen, my back to the window above the sink. Although I couldn’t see it, I felt the warmth of the morning sun pouring in, illuminating the floor and brightening the otherwise dim space. The hug—awkward yet real—was accompanied by Grandma’s smile and her distracted glances outside. She waved once, without uttering a word, and I understood that my grandfather awaited her on the other side, honking the horn of his cherished Chrysler.
This morning, my thumbs hovered over my phone, ready to share my dream with my dad. Before I could send my message, his text arrived: “Grandma’s gone. Left us around 1 a.m.”
I can’t comprehend why she chose to come to me. Perhaps it was because of my writing; maybe because I share my thoughts with others. Maybe she wanted me to convey to my family that she is finally at peace and truly happy. Possibly, she wished to share her tranquility with us as we faced the finality of this moment. Maybe she was aware of my quiet struggles with faith. Or perhaps, after years of misspelling my name, she wanted me to keep something positive to hold onto.
It’s good, Grandma. Everything is good.
In summary, the reflection on a grandmother’s departure reveals a complex relationship marked by indifference and unfulfilled emotional connection. A dream serves as a poignant farewell, leading to an understanding of peace and acceptance in the face of loss.
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