There was such a wide gap between the grandmother I knew in my early childhood and the woman that I realized — too late — I would never truly get to know as an adult. There lingers still a sadness for all that was lost and all that could have been had she not passed away as she did: slowly, away from us, not always able to remember. Sometimes when I think of her I am reminded of her funeral… but not of the sorrow, which has since passed; instead, I am taken back to the celebration of her life and how it was very much a reunion for her family and a rediscovery of all that binds us together. And interspersed with the bittersweet wonder of reconnecting with everyone are images from that week in St. Paul: brilliant snow draped across a frozen space, and tree limbs stretched to the heavens, the groves of supplicants naked in the snow.
My grandmother made a wonderful potato soup, loved to sing, and was a die-hard baseball fan all her life. She raised four children on her own after the early death of her husband, worked hard, persevered, and took great comfort in her faith. My dad looks just like his mom, and I look just like him.
Today would have been her eighty-fourth birthday, and I’d like to think that if she were still alive and healthy she would have celebrated it tonight by watching her beloved Dodgers beat the Reds and enjoying her favorite beer. Even this Twins fan would have rooted for them, just for her.
Post a Comment