When I tell people about my Grandma, I often describe her in numbers.
She visited 30 countries, some of them up to 12 times. She owned 10 Bibles; visitors would find them tucked into every corner of her house. Over the course of my life she mailed me hundreds of cards with one dollar bills pressed inside. My favorite thing she left me when she passed was one diamond hanging on a chain. It was from her engagement to my grandpa, her husband of 48 years.
She can also be described in smells. The smell of Paris. Of crepes sold on the street, and cheese in our hotel stairwell, where you might get a glimpse of the Eiffel tower if you tilt your head to just the right angle.
She can be described in touch. A tight hug or the sun on your face at the hottest part of the day. She loved to sit on her splintery back porch, face turned to the sky, the only thing making it bearable: a Diet Coke poured into a wine glass, fizzing over ice.
She can be described in taste. Thanksgivings with the whole family, crowded onto the front lawn for a group photo before we dashed back inside to the dessert table. I think of her every time I eat her famous chicken barbecue recipe. The one I rescued just in time when my uncle was tossing papers out left and right after her funeral. Who can blame him, after all, when a woman journals every day of her life there’s a lot to sift through.
She can be described in sounds. Muted French engulfing us in the night as we sat scooping chocolate mousse onto our spoons, the Eiffel Tower glittering overhead. Trains rattling through the London Underground as we rustled our maps and giggled about how utterly lost we were. The one last picture plea, and the “stand up straight, Madison” speeches.
...Trains rattling through the London Underground as we rustled our maps and giggled about how utterly lost we were...
Most importantly she can be described in sight. Her striding ahead of me as we gallivanted through New York, her legs much longer than mine. Seven years later, the sight of her telling me to go on ahead, she’d be fine on this bench in the middle of Santorini, not able to come along once her cancer began to catch up.
I’m lucky that I can remember these things and talk about them so fondly with my family and friends. I owe it all, of course, to her. She gave me my first travel journal in third grade, and although it might have been filled with scribbles of Parisian poodles, my writing has certainly evolved since then.
I owe it all, of course, to her.
Keeping a log of these memories has helped me cope with the loss of my best friend, and anyone reading excerpts from my journals will see that I believe those dealing with a loss should pick up a pen and do the same.
