It’s taken me awhile to write this letter. You’ve been gone for four months now. I wish that last fall, for Jack’s first birthday party, I would have told you then to march yourself straight to the doctor after the very first time I heard that hacking, chronic cough. I wish that the last time I spoke to you, I would have known then that in less than a month, you would be dead. I wouldn’t have been able to warn you then, to save you, but perhaps I could have said the things I am ready to say right now.
You were the quintessential grandmother, and my kids are lucky to have had you. As a mother in law, you were overbearing and it took me years to understand that your intentions were always good. You tried to bond with me then, taking me on weekend trips and trying to catch a flicker of an interest I might have in common with you. You heard that I liked butterflies and on every special occasion I would receive a beautiful wrapped, butterfly themed gift. You were more generous than anyone I have ever known. When you visited, your arms were never empty. Vegetables from the garden, fresh fruit, clothes for the kids, homemade blackberry jam, new towels or sheets and you always justified it by saying “it was on sale” or “we won’t ever be able to eat all of this”, but in time, I knew better. You gave for the sheer joy that it brought you. I remember the days of complaining. “Why couldn’t she ask me what I need and then bring that? Why does she only bring what she thinks we need?” I always saw you pushing your advice into every crevice of our life, whether we wanted it or not. I realize now that you were only trying to help, in the only way you knew how.
I left your son, multiple times, and during those times of separation, you never contacted me. I griped about it then, at how easily I thought your love could fade, but what I didn’t see was that every time we reconciled, you welcomed me back with open arms. You didn’t speak about the past; you treated me as if nothing had ever happened, and you picked up exactly where we had left off. I was never judged for my decisions.
There were times I heard you quickly say “I love you” as we parted and I would brush it off as a slip of the tongue. I never said it back, too embarassed by that kind of display of emotion. Today, I wish I would have reciprocated.
You were ceaseless, amazing, never tiring of standing in the kitchen or serving food or caring for us in a way that I fear I’ll never learn. I wonder now if you knew there was something terribly wrong, if you could sense disease spreading inside of you. I wonder if you knew it was coming, but kept it to yourself until the last possible moment, when it couldn’t be hidden away anymore. You never would have wanted to burden us with your illness.
Over time, I grew to admire you, to respect you, to find excuses to call you and linger on the phone until the conversation dwindled.
You raised a good man, one with faults and demons like the rest of us, but a good, hardworking, loyal man who loved the hell out of his family just like you did.
I was there, at the memorial. They wanted me to sit in the front row with the rest of the family, but the divorce was impending and I felt like an intruder. I sat to the side, with my own mother, and she clutched my hand as the lump in my throat grew large and unmanageable and I felt the tears bubble up inside me so fiercely that my chest finally gave in and I sobbed from the weight of it all.
I miss you, and even though they don’t ever vocalize it, the children miss you too. You are still in the air around us, all the time. I think of you as I pour boiling water over a fruit juice stain on a child size t-shirt. I see you hunched over the sewing machine as I fold the quilts. I open the box of Jack’s clothes, the next season’s size, and I find items you purchased, things you’ll never see him wear.
Thank you for your life, for unconditional love, for giving me so many things my own family did not exemplify. Our world is a little less beautiful without you in it, but I know we are blessed to have been given the time that we had with you. I will forever be changed by the mark you left on my life, and in many ways, I will always be striving to give my children what you gave your own. One fruit juice stained t-shirt at a time.
You were the quintessential grandmother, and my kids are lucky to have had you. As a mother in law, you were overbearing and it took me years to understand that your intentions were always good. You tried to bond with me then, taking me on weekend trips and trying to catch a flicker of an interest I might have in common with you. You heard that I liked butterflies and on every special occasion I would receive a beautiful wrapped, butterfly themed gift. You were more generous than anyone I have ever known. When you visited, your arms were never empty. Vegetables from the garden, fresh fruit, clothes for the kids, homemade blackberry jam, new towels or sheets and you always justified it by saying “it was on sale” or “we won’t ever be able to eat all of this”, but in time, I knew better. You gave for the sheer joy that it brought you. I remember the days of complaining. “Why couldn’t she ask me what I need and then bring that? Why does she only bring what she thinks we need?” I always saw you pushing your advice into every crevice of our life, whether we wanted it or not. I realize now that you were only trying to help, in the only way you knew how.
I left your son, multiple times, and during those times of separation, you never contacted me. I griped about it then, at how easily I thought your love could fade, but what I didn’t see was that every time we reconciled, you welcomed me back with open arms. You didn’t speak about the past; you treated me as if nothing had ever happened, and you picked up exactly where we had left off. I was never judged for my decisions.
There were times I heard you quickly say “I love you” as we parted and I would brush it off as a slip of the tongue. I never said it back, too embarassed by that kind of display of emotion. Today, I wish I would have reciprocated.
You were ceaseless, amazing, never tiring of standing in the kitchen or serving food or caring for us in a way that I fear I’ll never learn. I wonder now if you knew there was something terribly wrong, if you could sense disease spreading inside of you. I wonder if you knew it was coming, but kept it to yourself until the last possible moment, when it couldn’t be hidden away anymore. You never would have wanted to burden us with your illness.
Over time, I grew to admire you, to respect you, to find excuses to call you and linger on the phone until the conversation dwindled.
You raised a good man, one with faults and demons like the rest of us, but a good, hardworking, loyal man who loved the hell out of his family just like you did.
I was there, at the memorial. They wanted me to sit in the front row with the rest of the family, but the divorce was impending and I felt like an intruder. I sat to the side, with my own mother, and she clutched my hand as the lump in my throat grew large and unmanageable and I felt the tears bubble up inside me so fiercely that my chest finally gave in and I sobbed from the weight of it all.
I miss you, and even though they don’t ever vocalize it, the children miss you too. You are still in the air around us, all the time. I think of you as I pour boiling water over a fruit juice stain on a child size t-shirt. I see you hunched over the sewing machine as I fold the quilts. I open the box of Jack’s clothes, the next season’s size, and I find items you purchased, things you’ll never see him wear.
Thank you for your life, for unconditional love, for giving me so many things my own family did not exemplify. Our world is a little less beautiful without you in it, but I know we are blessed to have been given the time that we had with you. I will forever be changed by the mark you left on my life, and in many ways, I will always be striving to give my children what you gave your own. One fruit juice stained t-shirt at a time.
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