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Michael called, last-second like, last night to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. He was on duty this weekend, so as busy as he was I'm very gratified that he thought to call.
High: Anna had her baby!
Jill got excellent news!!!
Low: Missing Grammy.
Getting some work done tomorrow while I'm staying home for the installation of some new windows and a new front door.
See today's "High".
All I know, all I know
is love will find a way...
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May 13, 2002
Dear Grammy
Dearest Grammy,
I was thinking about you yesterday. It was Mother's Day, and I was remembering how I would always celebrate Mother's Day *and* Grandmother's Day with you. With our life and our relationship the way it was, I'm glad there were two special days you could call your own.
I hate having to say "was". I wish I could talk to you. But who knows? Maybe there's Internet access in Heaven
I remember going to Le Garage with you and Uncle F and Laurel, nearly every year for Mother's Day. While you and he sipped coffee and lingered over cheesecake, Laurel and I were at the shore, scheming to find a way to get across the water to the old ships wrecked in the bay, and getting our sandals and the hems of our best dresses damp with sea water. You'd scold us for tracking sand into the car, but then stop at Hodgekin's on the way home for black raspberry frozen custard.
Despite missing you, yesterday was a lovely day for me. Calvin made a very elaborate breakfast (hah - you've always fed us your "nice eggs", but you've never tried Calvin's!), and he and Marie gave me a lovely watch. Just the kind I wanted - a silver bracelet, thin with a small face. It'll go beautifully with my wedding ring - and I'm pouting that I have to wait another month-and-a-half for that to happen. I tried the ring on yesterday, just to see how they would look together, and I didn't want to take it off again.
Oh, how I wish you were going to be there, when Calvin and I get married. We will raise our glasses to you, and you will be there in our hearts. I'll do it the right way this time, I promise. I've learned my lessons, and, well, I know you approve of Calvin. After all, he painted your porch! And he volunteered to do it! A guy like that has got to be a keeper.
I tried calling Susan yesterday, but there was no answer at her house. So I left a message - you know how it is, sometimes, trying to get ahold of her. You must know that she's taking good care to put fresh flowers down every time she's in Gray. At least once a week, so she tells me. I suppose it's something of a comfort to her, but as she told me last week, "I feel like I'm still too young to be responsible for this kind of thing." You, Grandpa, Mum, Aunt Peggy, Uncle Earl, Uncle Jim - I wish I were there to help her to be true to everyone's memories.
I remember when you and I used to put flowers down for Mum, when I was little. You told me I could still talk to her, if I wanted. I think I wanted to, but I didn't know how. And I felt awkward and anxious, because you always looked so sad. For so long, it was so much easier not to talk about things. But as time went on, we got better at learning how to reach out toward one another. Maybe we didn't talk about "it" as much as we should have, but even in our silence and avoidance, we were sharing a bond.
I want to talk to you, now, but I don't know how. There's only way that I know how to talk to someone who I can't see... and well, it seems too much like praying. So, like Emily Byrd Star (do you remember that summer I did nothing but read "those damn books"?), I'll write a letter to you. There are things out there that no one understands, so perhaps it's not so impossible to think that you'll receive this.
All I can do otherwise is shout to the sky - or whisper, eyes cast down - "I miss you, Grammy!". I think of you at odd moments, and I remember you at obvious moments. I look at pictures of you, and I stare at your hands - remembering how we would walk together in the summer evenings, and I would fit my small, smooth hand into your soft, wise one.
Remember how I used to push you up the hills, on those walks? That memory makes me laugh as much now as you and I did, over ourselves, back then. What an odd pair we were, with Tawny-dog bounding around us and we hollering at her to stop chasing the doves.
What a wonderful childhood I had. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the softness of your hands, your dry lips on my cheek. I can hear your funny little chuckle, and your voice calling me by those silly nicknames you had for me.
Our family has never been very large, but it seems so much smaller now. Our family was all about you, it seems, and now without you it's almost like we lack a reason to *be* a family - though Susan and I have re-discovered a bond we'd almost forgotten. I don't want to upset you, Grammy, but I'm sure you already know and see this. Ah, well, you know how things are with all of us. Fiercely independent, stubborn to a fault, and wary of each other. Families are complicated things, sometimes. And as you always used to say, "Well, you can't pick your relatives."
I would have picked *you*, anyway. As much as we fussed at each other sometimes (and those were some ripper arguments, when our like personalities clashed in a big way, weren't they?), you're still the best person I know. Everything that's good in me comes from you. Everything that I've ever achieved is a direct result of the lessons I learned from you. And even though you're not here, I'm still learning from you. I try to live my life according to the standards that you instilled in me, as if you were looking over my shoulder.
I guess you still *are* looking over my shoulder. How about that? Guess I finally got it. And I'm sure you're thinking, "It's about time."
I love you, Grammy. I miss you every day, constantly, always. Happy Mother's Day!
Your little Laura