Grandma

“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

My Grandma has soft hands. I sit next to her on our couch, holding one and stroking the softest spot, the one between her thumb and forefinger. If I inhaled close enough, I know I’d smell powder just by their touch.

Grandma tells me about being a little girl in America, about being the only little girl who can speak German well enough to give a special reading on Christmas Eve each year. She tells me how her father never came to church on Christmas Eve and how she never connected that with the big tree magically decorated in their front room when she returned from service those evenings.

In the self-centeredness of youth, I never asked her more stories about her childhood. Now I hold on to what little she offered up.

I lean my head back against the cushions and turn sideways to smile at her. Something tells me I will treasure this moment.

I should have held on to so many other moments. The fun ones in the summer when we tried to play in the lake with her, unaware she’d rather be anywhere but in the water. The sweet ones when she and Grandpa faithfully came to watch me dance. One night, she told me she watched me leap off the stage and couldn’t hold back the tears at the expression of joy on my face. I don’t even remember feeling the joyful, but Grandma saw it.

I’m her only granddaughter. I carried her prayer book down the aisle at my wedding. She sent me books to soothe my soul at college; “old lady books,” I called them, but relished their sweetness each night when the days were filled with strain and stress. The last time we played Scrabble she beat me, humbling the college English student with a few well-played tiles.

I see her now in the hospital bed, smiling tiredly as she tells us how she spilled her coffee all over that morning. I grin as she matter-of-factly complains about the breakfast, telling us we wouldn’t eat it, either. She’s always been spunky in a quiet, mischievous way. I catch her peaceful eyes as I lean to kiss her, telling her to get better, listening to her gentle retort that she is, in fact, fine.

Part of me is glad I didn’t know that was the last time I’d see her. I would have wept, I would have held her hand too tightly, willing her not to leave, not yet. Instead I hugged her, kissed her, smiled at her, promised her flowers to brighten up the room. She saw me leave happy. She didn’t see my cheeks wet with tears.

This Christmas, Grandma couldn’t play the piano. I saw her eyes moisten as she longed for a talent dulled by age. She’s playing now. She won’t see my first child, watch my brother get married or celebrate any more milestones with us; but she’ll play a song, so sweet and still and silent we’ll just hear it in our hearts.