My mom handed me an envelope last night with my name on it.
We had just arrived in Maui as a family – mom, dad, brother, and me – and with the time difference were all up way past our bedtime. After the long flights, the reliable hassle of renting a car, finding the condo we are staying for the week, and heading to the Safeway for groceries, we were all travel day exhausted.
Sitting in the condo living room, I had powered up my laptop to respond to a work email (something that required attention before the morning; otherwise I wouldn’t have trusted my fried brain on anything). In the middle of writing an email to my boss, my mom hands me an envelope with my name on it.
Inside is an old picture of me as a little girl in my grandma’s arms. On the back, in Nana’s handwriting, is the note: “Thanks for the memories.”
“I’m going to cry,” I tell my mom. I’m tired, already prone to tears, and not lying. It wells up in me: the love I feel for my grandmother, the love I know she feels for me, the passage of time, the reality of my grandparents steadily moving towards the end of their life while still holding such a bright spot in my own.
“I am crying,” I tell my mom. I am. There’s warm tears running down my cheeks.
My mom comes up from behind and give me a hug. She knows what she gave me is special.
I live far away from Nana and Bumpa (what I call my grandparents on my dad’s side). I’m in Austin, they are back in Wisconsin. They live in the same house my dad grew up in and were within a 30 minute drive for all of my childhood. I see them about twice a year when I come home: for Thanksgiving and for a week in the summer. They are healthy; but for the first time are talking about moving out of their house in the next couple years to simpler living in a condo.
This last summer I came home twice: once for my birthday week as usual, and a few weeks later from my Great Aunt Shirley’s funeral. She was Nana’s sister and in the role of second grandmother to me.
I have not been the kind of granddaughter (or daughter) who stays in touch. Especially through my college years. But I am trying to be the kind of granddaughter (and daughter) now who picks up the phone, who calls, who treats the loving parental figures in my life for what they are: a great gift.
The photograph is a reminder that I have been so so loved.
God, I’m going to cry again.
With Love,
Natalie