It’s been a week filled with losses and good-byes–some small, some huge, some manageable, some not so much. It’s seems to be time for yet another (I’m horrible at them even after way too much practice). I’m even worse with unspoken ones–letters typed together to form words, words littering paper, scratchy substitutes for the ideal–verbalizations of endearment uttered to conscious, loved ones.
Dear Grandma,
This message is premature but I need to say it. Three minutes might be too late. I can’t stand to hear of your suffering (Dad is hurting also). Time’s hands are whirling faster and faster. While our relationship was not always pristine and when we were both much younger we said some things we regret, I have good memories–of hillside rock gardens, beautiful flowers and bulbs tucked lovingly into tiny crevices, of steep, spiraling steps leading down to a hidden vegetable garden, the heavy perfume of ripened tomatoes, your Hostas (I will grow them one day), the array of feathered friends that ate from Grandpa’s pulley rigged feeder, of brightly seeded strawberries with thick, heavy cream, poppyseed cake (I knew they weren’t chocolate chips), of The Hill and a brown station wagon shifting gears, straining to make it to the top, audio books talking because of bright, blue eyes clouded by semi-blindness, the terrible towel that hung on your door, your love of The Game–black and gold, your political ideas (you bluntly informed me that mine were bunk), your feistiness and, often, uncensored belief systems you shared with me (or anyone else within earshot).
I will miss you. I am ungrateful for life’s sudden abruptness, preventing me from audibly mouthing the words (and having you know and understand). Yet, I speak and mean what I say. I love you. I’m sorry for life’s rudeness and pain. I hope that death brings comfort and Grandpa and light and freedom.
Love,
Pamela
Pamanner 