I remember when I received the news that my grandmother had passed away. I was living overseas when the phone rang that night. When I took the receiver, I heard my Dad's normally stoic voice tremble. In North Carolina, his mouth formed the words, "Momma died today," and in my dark office in Wales, my ear passed the news on to my brain. My first reaction, being a Momma myself, was one of sadness and sympathy toward the man so far away at the other end of that receiver. I think I said, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?' Losing a Momma creates a complicated, ragged void since memories of mom are often tied to all parts of ourselves.
My grandmother had been wasting away for a few years. After living a selfless life, she faded away painfully slowly before our eyes, so I did not feel much sadness on her behalf. I think we all were more than a bit relieved that she had been released from what her life had become in the end. The last time I had seen her, I remember placing my toddler in her arms as she reclined in her favorite chair. She loved babies but panicked those last few years anytime I put one of my babies on her lap. "Don't let me drop him!" she'd cry out, knowing that she wasn't the strong Momma that she used to be. I remember holding her hand. She had soft, thin, wrinkled skin and swollen knuckles, and I remember whispering to her that it was okay to go. She was so weak. Her medications made her cold, and she was in and out of lucidity. So her passing was not entirely sad.
But there I was a world away feeling helpless, lost and relieved. Add 'confused' to that list. The 'sugar and spice and everything nice' from my childhood was no longer in this earthly world. I wasn't really sure how I was supposed to feel. I wasn't sure how I was going to get closure since it became obvious that I wouldn't be able to make it home for her memorial service. So I did what I do. I wrote. I wrote about my grandmother and the delightfully prominent role she played in my childhood. I remembered her goodness and her gifts. Sparkly, soft memories of her returned to my mind and leaped onto the paper effortlessly.
I sent my written words to my family back in North Carolina, and I am told that my writing became an integral part of her eulogy, but I was not there. I was still a world away knowing I'd never sit with her again. I'd never again hear her sing "In the Garden" off key while she worked expertly in the kitchen to serve all of us. I wasn't sure if anyone would ever again make me feel as adored as she did, and I knew that now I'd never be able to repay all of her kindnesses. Perhaps I was wrong.
I spoke to my own mother on the phone shortly after I got the news. A good mom listens, makes you feel safe, and encourages you to work things out on your own. I heard myself tell my mother, "She isn't here anymore, but I kind of feel like she's everywhere now." At the time I didn't really understand what those words meant even though I knew they were true.
Today they are still true, and I understand what they mean. My grandmother, who made perfect lemon meringue pies and performed open heart surgery on my favorite stuffed Sesame Street Ernie, is everywhere. A few nights ago, as I sat in the dark after singing a tired child to sleep, I told her so.
My grandmother had been wasting away for a few years. After living a selfless life, she faded away painfully slowly before our eyes, so I did not feel much sadness on her behalf. I think we all were more than a bit relieved that she had been released from what her life had become in the end. The last time I had seen her, I remember placing my toddler in her arms as she reclined in her favorite chair. She loved babies but panicked those last few years anytime I put one of my babies on her lap. "Don't let me drop him!" she'd cry out, knowing that she wasn't the strong Momma that she used to be. I remember holding her hand. She had soft, thin, wrinkled skin and swollen knuckles, and I remember whispering to her that it was okay to go. She was so weak. Her medications made her cold, and she was in and out of lucidity. So her passing was not entirely sad.
But there I was a world away feeling helpless, lost and relieved. Add 'confused' to that list. The 'sugar and spice and everything nice' from my childhood was no longer in this earthly world. I wasn't really sure how I was supposed to feel. I wasn't sure how I was going to get closure since it became obvious that I wouldn't be able to make it home for her memorial service. So I did what I do. I wrote. I wrote about my grandmother and the delightfully prominent role she played in my childhood. I remembered her goodness and her gifts. Sparkly, soft memories of her returned to my mind and leaped onto the paper effortlessly.
I sent my written words to my family back in North Carolina, and I am told that my writing became an integral part of her eulogy, but I was not there. I was still a world away knowing I'd never sit with her again. I'd never again hear her sing "In the Garden" off key while she worked expertly in the kitchen to serve all of us. I wasn't sure if anyone would ever again make me feel as adored as she did, and I knew that now I'd never be able to repay all of her kindnesses. Perhaps I was wrong.
I spoke to my own mother on the phone shortly after I got the news. A good mom listens, makes you feel safe, and encourages you to work things out on your own. I heard myself tell my mother, "She isn't here anymore, but I kind of feel like she's everywhere now." At the time I didn't really understand what those words meant even though I knew they were true.
Today they are still true, and I understand what they mean. My grandmother, who made perfect lemon meringue pies and performed open heart surgery on my favorite stuffed Sesame Street Ernie, is everywhere. A few nights ago, as I sat in the dark after singing a tired child to sleep, I told her so.
Mommy, I told her, you are here in the creaking of this rocking chair.
You are there anytime I, without thinking, plant double kisses on my babies' faces.
Anytime I cream butter and sugar together, you are most certainly there.
You are there when my daughter stands beside me singing off key in church,
And you are there when a crying little girl collapses into my arms
Because you showed me how loving, open arms and listening ears can ease any sorrow.
I never paid back your kindnesses, but I am passing them on.
And now I can so clearly see that the love you gave to me
did not end when you passed from this world.
You are memories of sugar and spice, African violets, and quiet laughter.
But more than that, you are the patience that I breathe into my lungs
when I pause in the midst of chaos.
You are the generosity I find when I hear the sound of my own voice complaining
despite my blessings.
You are there in the dark, quiet moments when children are sleeping;
You are there when the kids are noisy and precocious and "worrying me to death,"
And you remind me that all of this is beautiful and fleeting.
You are a mother's love,
And you are everywhere.
Adeline Davis Blackburn (with newborn Emma Carson)
1914-2007
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