HONORING the DEAD

Grandma Rose was a proud, stylish and beautiful woman who, at age sixty-five appeared to be about forty-five. Mimi and I did not know her very well during our youth. The only time that we got to see her was when my father would come by and happen to take us to her house on brief visits. I loved her house with its’ dim lighting, sleek parquet wood floors, oriental rugs and African paintings and sculptures. Everything was so clean, so neat that I remember thinking that she believed that children were too messy and that was why I believed that we did not visit that often. I longed to appear sociable hoping that she would invite us more frequently. While at her house, I would sit there stiffly, smiling politely not knowing what to say. I wanted her approval so desperately that I tried to answer every one of her questions as perfectly as possible. However, this resulted in shy monosyllabic responses to inquiries that required extensive elaboration; it was extremely awkward for us all.


During my early thirties, Grandma had her leg amputated. I began visiting that same Linden Boulevard apartment where I’d sat cowering at her greatness as long as I could remember, taking her to doctors’ appointments and grocery shopping, paying her bills and keeping her company too. I would even help her out in going to the bathroom and bathing herself which made us both feel a bit uncomfortable in the beginning; but after a while we grew accustomed to a routine that developed almost instantly and Grandma came to depend upon me somewhat. I was happy to get to know her and realized that we were enjoying a bond that was ancient and strong. She was the proud matriarch and I the venerating daughter.