Just A Glimpse

It’s funny. Well, “funny” is not the right word at all, but that’s the problem that I’m dealing with right now.  I can’t find the right words.  Not even close. I have sat down to write “this” blog so many times and it’s been so hard.  There truly are no words. So, here is attempt #273.  (Some of you will get the reference of that particular number.  Clever, huh?)

Dear Gram,

To say that your legacy lives on in me, my cousins and our children is an understatement. We are all more like you in ways we don’t even realize sometimes.  (Sorry, G, but it’s true…good luck. At least you know what you’re in for.)

We joke that you called me “a miracle” to everyone who’d listen (or pretend to listen).  Your pride in me and the rest of your grandchildren and great-grandchildren went unmatched.  I beg anyone to challenge me on that statement.

You never missed a single First Day of School.  Even when I was in college, you’d head up to our house to say goodbye before we headed down to PC.  At the time, it was sort of “expected” because I knew you’d be there.  Now, looking back, I am in awe of it.  What a simple, quick visit can do for a kid.

I can’t think of a single “thing” of mine that you weren't there for, for 35 of my years– recitals, shows, presentations, parties, meetings, you name it.  In fact, when H and M were little and we enrolled them in their first “class”, I was afraid to take them by myself.  I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle both of them.  Who came with me each week?  You did.

While I would sing in church, you would tell every single person who walked by you, that I was your granddaughter.  Yes, Gram, they thought I was beautiful.  And yes, Gram, they had never heard a more beautiful voice.  (At least they knew that was what they were supposed to say.)  Oh, and by the way, it was very clear to them that I was your granddaughter.  You had already told them for that past 2,619 Sundays.

Your ability to not take things too seriously (including yourself) is a quality that I am proud to say I see in myself.  Like you, I let most things roll off my back.  And like you, if I do get upset about something – look out.  I mean business.

Every time I need something to be hemmed or mended in some way, (honestly) my first thought is to give it to Gram.  That’s one thing that, unfortunately, you didn’t teach me.  I truly can’t thread a needle successfully.  Oh well, I love you anyway.  You taught me lots of other things… J

Most of the phrases that I have coined as “mine” are really not mine– they are “yours”.  I share them with you. And I melt a little when I hear M and H saying them now as well.

But Gram, I am angry about one thing.  And it’s a pretty big thing.  It’s not your fault.  It’s not your fault at all.  It’s no one’s fault.  And yet, I can’t get it out of my mind.  It creeps in to my head when I least expect it and I get angry.  So angry.  (See “I mean business” angry above.)

Gram, you were taken from us too early.  For a few years, you were “here” with us, but “you” weren’t.  It started innocently enough and, because we didn’t know enough about what was happening, when you said or did things that didn’t make sense, we all just thought “Oh, that’s just Gram…she’s being, well, Gram.”  Soon enough though, that didn’t cut it anymore.  We knew that you were leaving us.  It happened slowly at first and then, as if in a blink, “you” were gone.   Suddenly we didn’t know you anymore.  You looked like you.  You sounded like you, sort of.  But you weren’t you.  We lost you.  And we didn't have a map.

I would say on my way down the hallway to visit, “maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of Gram today.  Maybe she’ll say something that will be 'just like Gram' today.  Maybe she’ll remember exactly who we are and why we are there and she’ll understand what I’m trying to say to her.”  Some days, at the beginning, my prayers would be answered.  I’d catch a "glimpse of Gram".  And I'd be so happy, like a little kid.  I had my Gram back.  And then you'd be gone.  As time went on though, these glimpses were fewer and fewer. 

It just didn’t make sense.  In my head, I would shout, “what do you mean, you don’t know this, that or the other thing?  You’re Gram! How can you not know what I’m talking about?”  I’d get in my car and cry. You know, the big, from the toes cry.  I’d sob.  And I’m sure I’m not the only one in our family who did that.

And then, I'd hope for a glimpse again, the next time I saw you.  Up until the very last day. 

I miss you.  I would say, "I miss you more than you know." But the amazing thing is, I believe that you do know.  You know every breath I have taken and will take.  Now, you understand everything - everything that has happened and will happen. 

You have more than a glimpse of me.  You have an eterntiy.