Her
perfume wafted through the halls as we opened the door but she wasn't there. My
grandmother’s ashes were contained in a black box on the kitchen table. I
looked at the art on the walls, each piece carefully hand painted with her
signature in the bottom right corner. Though I didn’t know it at the time, she
inspired the photographer in me. I remembered her laugh, hearty, from deep in
her stomach that spread contagiously to others.
One time
after my Grandfather passed away, I was having trouble sleeping. She came in to
tuck me in and say goodnight. I burst into tears, but managed to say between
gasps for air that I was sad for her.
“Why would you be sad for me?” she
asked.
“Because you’re lonely.”
She lulled me to sleep, reassuring
me that she wasn’t lonely at all.
My grandmother and my aunt Mary had
been friends since they were small children escaping Hitler’s Germany. They
always lived by their own rules and supported themselves. Aunt Mary had a light
grey typewriter that used to whisper sweet words to coax me into the bedroom.
The typewriter sat on the antique desk and I ran towards it with the intensity
of a girl in love. The keys spoke to me; clack-clack-clack they'd say and I
understood that they were encouraging me to continue writing.
“Come Amanda! We’re going to our
little Italian restaurant”
I quickly folded the note I had
written my Aunt Mary and stuck it in her desk drawer.
“I’m getting the ziti and meatballs
again!”
She put on her white mink coat that
complimented her pearl necklace and we walked to the corner underneath the Roosevelt
tram as she smoked a cigarette against my objections.
As I
watched the red roses float away with my grandma’s ashes, I thought of her life
that had vanished in the blink of an eye. She used to tell me about her
lavish trips to Europe. She’d show me the handmade jewelry she had picked up at
a local market. She’d tell me that when she lived in Switzerland it was always
gray and rainy. To avoid falling into the gloom of the weather, she would take
a drive to Italy and when she went over the mountain that separated the two
countries, she said the sun would start to shine. I imagined walking with my
Grandma as we share the hidden beauties and rich culture of Europe. Her love of
Italy inspired me to learn Italian.
We took a boat out to spread my
grandma’s ashes on a Saturday morning. I looked over at my family.
"Mommy" I called out, with
no intention of saying more. She held me tight as the boat bounced up and down
with the motion of the waves.
"What is it honey?" she asked me but I never did
respond. I looked into her eyes and saw that she was the only strong woman I
knew now. She stood beside me, an embodiment of all that I wished to become,
and I felt like a little girl again- for a moment.
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