I open the cabinet and see them, one or two left on the entire sheet. Their black edges, ridged and sticky, coming off of the page and filling the negative white space. The small flags of the forever stamp, staring at me in the face. And then it all hits me, the purpose of those stamps being purchased in the first place. Letters to be written home, letters to be written to someone loved. Someone who knows you and reminds you of the past. That person was my grandmother.
I used to go to the store and find a new set of greeting cards that were colorful, that reminded me of patterns and images she adored. The only time I would ever go to the post office was to buy stamps for her. Even at the ATM, when the screen prompted me about purchasing stamps, I would say yes. Twenty dollars on a set of stamps that would get used, one by one, piece by piece. Who needs that many stamps in this day and age of technological savviness? Well, me I guess.
I started mailing physical cards when phone conversations became too hard. We would talk about the weather, she would ask me to repeat myself, she would pretend as if she understood what I was saying when I could tell she didn’t want to ask me again what I had said. Five minutes on the phone, half way across the country, seemed like an eternity – a battle of words when really all I wanted to transmit was love and kindness.
It was my self-prompted duty to send a card weekly to her. At first, it seemed as if she could read them herself. Then mom and dad would tell me how much she enjoyed the cards being read to her, from her aide, from them, from anyone who saw it standing on its fine edges right at the end of her breakfast bar. Propped up, there I was, existing in her space, in her apartment, there with her and all of those memories she’s collected over the ninety odd years of her life.
Knowing that those cards were being read to her and I could include her in my life were moments of relief and connection. It always brought me back to moments I shared with her, reading books when I was the one who needed someone to share stories with me from words on the page. I remember her nickname for me – the only person who used that term of endearment – and the way she would grab my whole face when I saw her to give me a kiss on the check. She was always so beautiful and put together, wearing intricately patterned shirts and jewelry that made her seem as if she knew of other ancient worlds and etiquette, even though she had a tendency to spill on herself, which I have somehow picked up. I didn’t think that it was a genetic trait, but I’m becoming convinced of it.
She was a solid force in my life and always believed in me, encouraging me to play, to be creative, to express myself.
She always liked to remind me that I had my eyes open and my mouth shut as a child, observing moments as they occurred. I grew up feeling so self-conscious about my eyes and how large they were. She always made me feel beautiful, even though I thought I looked like an alien.
She loved to repeat the story of my direct and unsubtle comments about her teeth. Unaware of the power of words at such a young age, I asked, “Grandma, why are your teeth yellow?” She told me, “No dear, they are ivory!” And as she repeated this story years later, she would giggle and snort in the way that she did, playfully covering her mouth as if not to draw more attention to her teeth and smile. She told this tale in front of friends, boyfriends, and relatives, recognizing our connection and, subconsciously, how much she cared for me as I was growing up.
She was a force to be reckoned with – she was there for me and my brother and sister whenever we needed her. Whether it was using her car to thrash through the snow with friends, to cover up secrets from our parents when we scratched some furniture or had friends over too late, there she was. She taught me so much: how to be compassionate, how to be a strong woman and how to take care of myself and those around me, how to enjoy what makes me happy and how to make time for it. She appreciated just being present with us and she would always let me win at scrabble. At the age of seven, I was beating an immigrant woman who I playfully allowed to use German words on the board. What a sucker I was…
Towards the end of our communications on the phone she would always end the conversation with a laugh and a long sigh, saying, “Oh honey, I wish you lived closer.” I wish I did, too.
While it is never easy to lose someone so meaningful in life, she gave me a perspective open to the possibilities and built for those who are willing to put in the work to live their dreams. She inspired me to do what is best for me and to go in the direction of my heart. She treated the past with respect, the present with gratitude, and the future with opportunity. I will forever be grateful for her support in my life and the care she gave me in my youth. It is with the year end and the loss of my grandmother that I send my appreciation to the universe for her presence in my life.
