Yesterday was my grandma’s birthday. She would have been 97. She might have made it, too, had she not been born of an era that didn’t discuss “female troubles.” By the time the beautiful creature who helped raise me told anyone something was wrong is was far, far too late to do anything more than pain management. It’s almost five years gone now since I last was able to hold her hand, plant a kiss on her forehead, tell her I love her. I miss her and it seems the milestones in this journey of letting go are just as profound as the other milestones that mark our steps through this life. So while I deal with a fresh round of mourning complete with tears and some smiles, I’ll leave this here with you so you might also know a bit about her.
Filmy shrouds of perception filter through grainy visions of yesterdays. Yesterdays forever bound to our present by colorful ribbons of shared reflections and personal realizations. For we who loved you, who gather with you once more to let you go, you are our collage.
A kaleidoscope of images forever imprinted across our souls. You will always be the smell of freshly churned earth, sweet and musty, damp with new life. The gentle sweet breeze of lilac and peony drifting through the recesses of our minds. Chimes of laughter wafting over fervent green grass as blinding white linens billow in a balmy summer breeze. You are the crisp, frosty autumn air teasing stocking-capped heads as they bob away, popcorn balls in hand, sticky sweet. The pungent wisp of sage hitting the palate before numbing cloves replace it followed by lazy slumber, wandering in and out of awareness of low rumbling murmurs, Christmas toys temporarily abandoned. You will always be our seasons, forever linked to our beginnings and our ends.
Physically gone, you remain in the fibers of our spirits, tugging at the colorful ribbons so we remain grounded and tied to the vibrant patch work that is our kindred quilt. Covering us, protecting us, keeping us safe and warm until we meet again.