My Grandmother passed away earlier this week. And that sucks. Two weeks ago I was watching my sister graduate from UIS (cum laude proclaims her big sister, with pride,) and today I can't sleep because I know in a few hours I'll be saying goodbye to one of the biggest influences in my life. I've been racking my brain all week to come up with some memory, some theme of our relationship that sums everything up, conveys how very special she was to me and how even though we'll carry on, even though this is the way of the world, there will always be a small Mema shaped hole in us.
But I can't She was too big, this is too big to be summed up nicely in a metaphorical memory. All I keep thinking about is Harry Potter. Not anything in the story particularly. But the series itself. My Grandma gave me the first book after a trip visiting one of my uncles. She handed me the hardcover, which at 11 years old felt rather hefty and grown up. I doubted my ability to get into it, a skinny 11 year old boy who was popular and charming and talented and magical seemed the exact opposite of me. But if you know me, you know that once I got into that book, I couldn't put it down. Or the next ones. I went to every midnight book premier and when the final movie came out, when I was 24, I was right there in the midnight showing, blessed to be there with my sister and cousins. That series changed who I was, helped a young me think about the world and believe that I could become something more than my awkward teenage self. I don't know how she knew I needed that book, but she did.
Maybe that sums her up a bit better than I thought. My Grandmother had the uncanny ability to know what I, and many others needed. She always managed to send a card, or a phone call exactly when you were feeling down and needed a pick me up. When I taught her to text (which I consider one of my crowning achievements) it became even easier for her to pick me up while I was feeling low.
Other people will be able to attest to her strong faith and sense of community service much better than I can ever dream to. She was a great woman, bent and determined to make her own little corner of this world the best it could be. She found beauty and humor in everything. She raised five awesome kids, which in turn raised 14 awesome grandkids, which are now raising 16 (and counting) awesome great grand kids which will raise even more great great grand kids, and so on until the sun explodes and nobody remembers anything about the Mona Lisa or string theory, or sadly, my Grandmother.
But I remember her now. I remember her love of the Cubs and boxed wine. Her long marriage to my Grandfather. I remember long summer afternoons at a pool, cold winters fighting me to do my math homework. I remember her being disappointed when I wasn't the person she knew I could be, and her shinning face as I walked across the stage to receive my degree. I remember her laughing at my dumb jokes and encouraging me as a stand up comic, or in my charity fundraising.
I remember one more thing. It's something that makes me look bad. Bad in the sense that I am human and dont always realize how lucky I was to have her with me. The last time I was home she was staying with my parents as well. I made myself some lunch, and while sitting with her eating it, she mentioned she was hungry. I begrudgingly handed over half my sandwich. I tried hard not to let her know it was begrudgingly, because she taught me to share and be kind. But secretly I was really hungry and impatient and didn't really want to share. But I sat there, eating it with her, and saw how pleased she seemed that I had given her that half sandwich. That I was nice enough to make sure that she was fed too. And that's the last memory I have of her. Something to remind me to always be kind, think of others, and share the extra that I have.
I don't know how she knew that's what I needed, but she did.
