My paternal grandmother and I never really developed a close bond. Circumstances and distance played a significant role; she shared a deeper connection with my cousins. As a child, that was tough to accept. She often misspelled my name on birthday cards, and during a moment of vulnerability when I was heartbroken, she simply took a long drag from her cigarette and calmly asked from across the room, “What did you do to deserve it?”
Unlike the warm, loving grandparents portrayed in Hallmark films, she was there at my wedding but felt quite distant. Looking back, it’s almost comical that she forgot to wear her dentures that day, yet at the moment, I felt her indifference just as sharply as the scratch of my veil.
I’m unsure why those memories linger, but they do.
Last week, when my dad informed us of her declining health, I tried to recall happier moments. They were not of her and me together, but rather of the joy she brought to others. My father mentioned that she never missed one of his football games, and family members fondly recounted her delicious homemade pies and ravioli soup. She was straightforward, a no-nonsense woman, and I can certainly relate to that.
That night, I dreamt of firsts and lasts. In my dream, my grandmother visited my home, a place she had never been, and enveloped me in her arms, a feeling I had never experienced. We stood in the kitchen, my back facing the window above the sink. While I couldn’t see it, I felt the morning sun pouring in, warming the floor and brightening the otherwise dim room. The hug was awkward but genuine, marked by Grandma’s smile and distracted glances outside. She waved once without uttering a word, and I understood that my grandfather was waiting for her on the other side, honking the horn of his beloved Chrysler.
This morning, I was ready to text my dad about the dream when his message arrived: “Grandma passed away. Left us about 1 a.m.”
I don’t know why she chose me for that dream. Perhaps it was because I write, or maybe she wanted me to convey her newfound happiness and peace to our family. Maybe she sensed my struggles with faith or wanted to ensure I remembered the good amidst the years of mispronouncing my name.
It’s good, Grandma. It’s all good.
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In summary, the memories we hold can be bittersweet, and sometimes our dreams serve as a bridge to connect with those we’ve lost. As we reflect and share, we find comfort in the legacy they leave behind.
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