My paternal grandmother and I never shared a particularly close bond. Circumstances and distance contributed to that; she enjoyed a richer relationship with my cousins. As a child, this reality was difficult to accept. She often misspelled my name on birthday cards, and during one vulnerable moment when I let my guard down and cried in her presence, she took a long drag from her cigarette and, from across the room, calmly asked, “Well, what did you do to deserve it?”
She didn’t celebrate my achievements like the grandparents you see in feel-good movies. She attended my wedding but felt emotionally absent. Looking back, the fact that she forgot to wear her dentures is somewhat amusing, but at that moment, the sting of her indifference was palpable, mingling with the scratchy lace of my veil.
I’m uncertain why those memories linger, but they do.
When she fell ill last week and my father informed us that her time was near, I tried to recall happier moments. They didn’t involve just the two of us but rather the joy she brought to those I love. My dad mentioned that she never missed one of his football games, and family and friends recounted tales of her famous pies and ravioli soup. She was a straightforward, no-nonsense woman, and I resonate with that quality.
That night, I dreamed of beginnings and endings. In the dream, my grandmother visited my home—a place she had never seen—and enveloped me in her arms, a sensation I had never experienced before. We stood in the kitchen, my back to the window above the sink. Though I couldn’t see it, I felt the morning sunlight pouring in, warming the floor and illuminating an otherwise dim room. The hug, awkward yet real, was complemented by Grandma’s smile and her distracted glances outside. She waved silently, and she didn’t need to speak; I understood that my grandfather was waiting for her on the other side, honking the horn of his cherished Chrysler.
This morning, I was ready to text my dad about the dream when his message arrived: “Grandma is gone. She left us around 1 a.m.”
I wonder why she reached out to me. Perhaps it’s because I write; maybe it’s because people connect with my words. It could be that she wanted me to share with the family that she is finally at peace, undeniably happy. Maybe she wished for us to embrace her tranquility amidst the heavy finality of her passing. Perhaps, after years of misspelling my name, she wanted me to grasp something positive.
It’s good, Grandma. Everything is good.
This article was originally published on February 2, 2005.
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In summary, my relationship with my grandmother was complex, marked by distance and misunderstanding. However, the dream I experienced just before her passing seemed to bridge that gap, offering a moment of connection and peace.