My paternal grandmother and I never shared a particularly close bond. Various circumstances and geographical distance contributed to this; she seemed to have a much deeper connection with my cousins. As a child, that reality was difficult to accept. She often misspelled my name on birthday cards, and the one time I let my emotional guard down, shedding tears in her presence due to a heartbreak, she simply took a long drag from her cigarette and matter-of-factly asked, “Well, what did you do to deserve it?”
Unlike the doting grandparents in feel-good films, she didn’t celebrate my achievements. She attended my wedding but was hardly engaged, and while it’s amusing now to think of her forgetting to wear her dentures, at that moment, her indifference felt like a sharp prick alongside the scratchy lace of my veil.
It’s curious that these particular memories linger in my mind, but they do.
When she fell ill last week, and my father informed us that her time was near, I sought out happier recollections. Yet, these memories weren’t of our relationship but rather of the moments she shared with those I cherished. My dad recounted how she never missed any of his football games, and my aunts and friends reminisced about her delicious homemade pies and ravioli soup. She was a straightforward woman, a no-nonsense type, and I recognized that trait in myself.
That evening, I dreamt of new beginnings and endings. In my dream, my grandmother visited my home, a place she had never been before, and enveloped me in her arms, a feeling I had never experienced. We stood in the kitchen, with my back to the window above the sink. Although I couldn’t see it, I could feel the morning sun pouring in, warming the floor and illuminating the otherwise dim space. The hug, awkward yet genuine, was accented by Grandma’s smile and her distracted glances out the window. She waved silently, and I understood instinctively that my grandfather was waiting for her, honking the horn of his cherished Chrysler.
This morning, with my fingers poised to text my dad about the dream, his message arrived first: “Grandma is gone. Left us around 1 a.m.”
I pondered why she chose to connect with me in that dream. Perhaps it was because of my writing; perhaps it was to convey that she was finally at peace. She might have wanted to share her tranquility with the family as we faced this significant change. Perhaps it was her way of reassuring me amidst my quiet struggles with faith. After all those years of misspelling my name, it seemed she wanted me to retain something positive.
It’s all good, Grandma. Everything is alright.
This narrative was originally published on Feb. 2, 2005.
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In summary, the bond with my grandmother was complex, marked by distance and missed connections. Yet, in her final moments, an unexpected dream provided solace and reminded me of the peace she now enjoys.
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