Remembering a grandparent.
Even though my grandmother was alive for most my life, I didn't get to know as much as I would have liked to now. But as I grew older and more aware, my grandmother grew weaker and less aware, so I didn't know her as she was, only bits of her in an increasing diminished state. I was sad when she died, but I didn't cry. I didn't cry at the memorial when the priest was performing his duties. But when my father stood forward to deliver his eulogy, there was nothing about the tragedy or how much she will be missed, but rather he spoke of what kind person she was. He told us about her positive attitude, her love of music and language and gardening, and he sang us her favorite lullaby that she used to sing, and it became harder for me to keep tears from sliding out from under my sunglasses. Not because I was sad she died, but because I was sad I didn't get to really know the wonderful person she was, magnified by the fact that I never knew my grandfather and have been told I would have liked him. But I'm glad that I at least got to hear how she was.
No comments:
Post a Comment