For Sylvia

Grandma's memorial was this Saturday past. Mom had asked if maybe I'd get up and read my blog post about her. I was torn because, as anyone who knows me would agree, public speaking is not one of my strong points. But this was my grandma and my Mom had asked me (she doesn't ask for much). I said I'd mull it over and I did. For days. I pretty much didn't want to read that particular piece and thought maybe something else would come. Well, come Friday evening....nothing. Mom said no pressure. OK. The next morning it came in full. I typed it out and did get up the nerve to read it at the podium. I barely did it, being choked up, nervous, eyes in a teary blur, but I did. Here's what I read:

When the sun fell that morning on your empty chair, I cried. Ancestors and guardian owls peered out from the niches in your room and spoke so silently. I felt all your things begin to whisper and hum a story, filling the space you left. Stray thoughts and memories, scattered back through the years, began to gather like birds to sing about you. I remember you, Grandma. Full and soft and strong, sometimes stern. Raising six children is work and, though I was the first grandchild, I was also one more in a long line of girls. Being underfoot at times is how I got to see you and know you, vigorous in life. The little joys of my childhood were probably no nonsense practicalities for you, just the necessities of running a large household. A self-serve gum drawer that smelled like cinnamon, a chalkboard in the washroom to draw on, the Little Garage stuffed with mysterious things, a pool, a hammock and at least six kinds of cereal to choose from in the morning. I remember your sure hands always doing. Peeling the Gravensteins into pie and crisp and sauce, the best. Rolling dough. Cookie cuts. Thumbprints and jam. At Christmastime the table groaned. Embroidering birds and flowers onto pillows and endless white linens. I still have the dishtowels you stitched us for our wedding 21 years ago, grayed and fraying but still beautiful to me. Hooked rugs, candlewicked runners and those glittering sequined calendars. Precious now, just because you fastened each shiny bit. I remember camping with you and Grandpa in the redwoods, hiking to the falls, screaming at the banana slugs, eating wood sorrel and making Jiffy Pop in the camper. Birthday cards, faithfully sent with your curving cursive, looped and graceful. Seeing you at my school, volunteering, first grade and feeling like I was home. That Halloween when you insisted I wear something (an orange Charlie Brown sweatshirt) over my Red Riding Hood costume because it was so bitter cold outside. I was mad but you were just looking out for me. I will always remember your softness. Your giggle. I liked it when you laughed and I tried to say amusing things to make you. You grew an enormous zucchini too tough to eat and I wrapped it in a blanket to be my baby for a week. That got a smile. I was smitten with your full-skirted square dancing dresses and was transported when you gave me one of your old ones complete with crinoline, a gift that was good for months of pretend. You were enamored of things fine and beautiful and really settled into enjoying them in your last years. Beautiful food, opals and pearls, handsome hats, a particular color of turquoise, these will always make me think of you. Grandpa painted and drew the redwoods but you planted fuchsias and drew the hummingbirds. I have a vision of you from some years ago, sitting in the backyard, in the sun, your blouse covered in a bright flowered print. Suddenly a hummingbird flew right up and hovered before you, heart high, contemplating you as a flower garden. You held you hands up, cupping the space he held. Just a few seconds and then he flitted away but I like to remember you that way, like a flower, bright and strong with a center of sweetness.

I love you, Grandma.