When I was in college, I had to do a writing assignment that was based on a poem. The subject sounded morbid— "What you missed by being dead." I don't recall the poem itself or the author—nor did a very cursory Google search.
But it's always stuck with me, that idea of explaining to a long-gone someone, here's what came after you. And I remember sitting in that overheated, tiny classroom and writing a list of the things I wish I'd shared with my grandma. It felt therapeutic.
A couple of weeks ago I was talking with my mom about her. I knew her as a child, and I have many happy memories to treasure from that time, but I didn't know her as an adult. I wish I had. I wish I could see how our relationship would have unfolded. I wish she would have been there to talk with me about fashion. I wish she'd taught me how to sew. I wish I'd gotten old enough to have her use one of her snarky comments on me. I wish, I wish, I wish.
Back to the conversation with my mom. It turned the idea on its head, because I learned what I missed by someone being gone.
Because, for someone who has been gone since October 12, 15 years ago—can that be right?—I learned something about her that I'd never known before:
My grandma had a pretty singing voice, and she could play piano by ear.
I was so struck by that little, glittering gift. A little gift to worry around in my head, to think about, to add to her biography. It's not that often that you get to learn something new about someone who has been dead for so many years—especially a person that you felt you knew so well.
My grandparents never had a piano in their house. The fact that she could play must have been one of those things I never got around to talking with her about. (I do remember her telling me that the clarinet was her favorite instrument and that I should take it up. I didn't. I played flute.) And maybe she sang around me, but I don't recall what her voice sounded like when she did.
I never got to ask her much about her childhood. I never related to her as an adult. Luckily, my mom has a great memory and can recall lots of things that Grandma told her. And then once in a while, a little shooting star straight from heaven lands in my lap and I feel, again, like she's here.
6 comments:
It's times like these when I really think you need a book deal.
That's sweet. It shows just how important grandparents are. That's why when we have kids, I say, go ahead dad, give your grandkids milkshakes and candy EVERY time you see them. I don't care. You're making a memory for them - one they will remember forever. (Just one example.)
I remember when my grandpa used to call from Arizona, where they lived when I was little, and he'd have me say the ABCs for him. He'd try first and keep screwing up, and I'd be like, No grandpa, M comes after L!! :)
I played flute too, as you know, but I always wanted to learn the clarinet. Maybe we should learn together!
What a sweet post.
WeeMo: You break my heart. You're the best.
A.: I agree. The memories you leave with your grandkids are ones to last their lifetime. I remember you telling me that about your grandpa. What an endearing story! You can tell me more about him the next time I see you.
Doah: Dude. Dueling clarinets. It's on.
Angie: Thanks, love!
Very touching post, KD. I remember you talking about your grandma when we worked together at Lillie. She must've made a huge impression on you. And how cool that you're still learning about her after she's gone.
"Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever."
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