Grandma

What triggers a memory? It can be a million little things. I walked into my kitchen this morning, as I do every morning. Pressed the on button on the coffee maker and listened to the gurgle of the pot making a precious morning brew. The smell of coffee, reminiscent of high misty peaks, a familiar, comforting smell. Typically that smell lingers in the kitchen for my short morning before heading off to work. But today was different. Today, when I returned to the kitchen after my shower there was a new smell. It was my Grandma.

Grandma John died when I was in high school. A stately lady, dignified and bright, my memories of Grandma are in a tidy home with family sitting and sharing stories. We would often visit Grandma and Grandpa in Kenosha on Sunday afternoons. The adults would sit around the living room catching up and telling stories. Grandma sat in a straight chair, Grandpa in his creaky wooden rocker. Always a practical one, Grandma would have a “take it or leave it” basket with a few items to share. She would narrate, telling a story about each item and asking whether anyone wanted it. She usually had something special for me, a book or a tool for handwork, always taking the time to guide my hands and teach me. Though I never felt I knew her that well, I never doubted her love for me. Grandma would share the details of what her book club was reading. I am sure there were other conversations but as the lone child—my brother and sister were grown and gone—I would often sneak away to a back bedroom and read, enjoying the quiet with the hum of the grownups nearby.

Today Grandma was here. The distinctive smell that I remember, unique to her home, settled like a familiar cloud in my kitchen. The word that comes to mind when I try to describe the smell is “white”—bleached curtains, linen towels, a gleaming porcelain sink, Grandma’s shock of white hair. I have smelled this cozy smell one other time, in my mother’s home. It was the day after my father, one of Grandma’s beloved twin boys, passed away. On that day it felt right that Grandma would visit, pulling her boy in tight and taking a peek at his family that had grown up in her absence.

Today I’m not sure why she showed up but I like to think she is here. “Hi Grandma”, I say aloud, breaking the silence of my peaceful kitchen, “I wish I could talk to you now. I’d love to tell you about The Sewing Machine Project,” and I imagine her nodding and smiling.

Albert Einstein said “There are two ways to live your life. One as if nothing is a miracle, the other as if everything is a miracle.”

I choose to believe the latter. Bowing to my grandmother, whose practicality would most likely make her doubt Einstein’s assertion, I trust that she would trust me. I embrace the miracle. Thanks for visiting, Grandma.