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| Gram and Adri in deep conversation, 2003 at Talahi |
A little over eight years ago, on the Ides of March, 2017, my grandmother died. She was 96, yet it still was unexpected as she was healthy and her normal self, but at least she’d had a full and happy life. We were very close, each understanding and really knowing the other. I can count on less than one hand the number of people in my life who truly knew me and understood me, and she was one of them. My daughter was another, and maybe because of this it wasn’t surprising that my daughter and my grandmother, her great grandmother, were extremely close as well.
Adri often referred to my grandmother as her best friend. They’d talk often, little private confabs in person or the phone. She and her boys would go visit gram more often than I did towards the end. I was happy that two of my favorite people had such a strong connection.
So when my sister called that March 15 to tell me the bad news, I knew I had to go to Adri and tell her in person. I could not do it over the phone.
She opened the door and immediately knew something was wrong (maybe it’s not a surprise that I’m not great at hiding my emotions, for better or worse.) We were in the boys’ room and I struggled mightily to say the words that had to be said.
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“Grandma…,” I began, “Grandma….,” and then broke down.
She immediately hugged me and asked for verification, “Did grandma die?,” and I nodded and we both cried as we tried to escape the moment in our strong mutual embrace.
Suddenly she stopped. She ran out of the boys’ room and I heard her furtively going through something in the other room. She returned with a large baggy, and inside was a tangerine-colored crocheted blanket. She shoved it into my hands.
Adri often referred to my grandmother as her best friend. They’d talk often, little private confabs in person or the phone. She and her boys would go visit gram more often than I did towards the end. I was happy that two of my favorite people had such a strong connection.
So when my sister called that March 15 to tell me the bad news, I knew I had to go to Adri and tell her in person. I could not do it over the phone.
She opened the door and immediately knew something was wrong (maybe it’s not a surprise that I’m not great at hiding my emotions, for better or worse.) We were in the boys’ room and I struggled mightily to say the words that had to be said.
|
“Grandma…,” I began, “Grandma….,” and then broke down.
She immediately hugged me and asked for verification, “Did grandma die?,” and I nodded and we both cried as we tried to escape the moment in our strong mutual embrace.
Suddenly she stopped. She ran out of the boys’ room and I heard her furtively going through something in the other room. She returned with a large baggy, and inside was a tangerine-colored crocheted blanket. She shoved it into my hands.
“Gram made this for me, and it smells like her, so I put it in this bag so the scent would never go away. Open it and smell it, you’ll see.”
My sense of smell is easily the weakest of my senses, and I never noticed or associated a scent with my grandmother, but I did as she suggested, opened the bag and smelled and was greeted immediately with my grandmother’s scent, something I hadn't even noticed my entire life consciously.
But Adrianna had, and she’d kept something so she could be near her great-grandmother whenever she wanted, whenever she needed her.
“Take it, dad, you keep it. You can smell her and be reminded whenever you want.”
“No, Adri, this is yours,” I replied. “It represents your special bond with her.”
But she wouldn’t have it. She insisted I take it home with me, so I did.
I still have the blanket, of course, but I don’t have anything that smells like Adrianna that can evoke thoughts and memories of her via scent. Each time I open the bag the scent seems to be weaker and weaker, but now each time I not only am reminded of my dear gram but also of my wonderfully empathetic daughter who was willing to give away this special remembrance of her great grandmother and friend to her grieving dad.
I love her so.
My sense of smell is easily the weakest of my senses, and I never noticed or associated a scent with my grandmother, but I did as she suggested, opened the bag and smelled and was greeted immediately with my grandmother’s scent, something I hadn't even noticed my entire life consciously.
But Adrianna had, and she’d kept something so she could be near her great-grandmother whenever she wanted, whenever she needed her.
“Take it, dad, you keep it. You can smell her and be reminded whenever you want.”
“No, Adri, this is yours,” I replied. “It represents your special bond with her.”
But she wouldn’t have it. She insisted I take it home with me, so I did.
I still have the blanket, of course, but I don’t have anything that smells like Adrianna that can evoke thoughts and memories of her via scent. Each time I open the bag the scent seems to be weaker and weaker, but now each time I not only am reminded of my dear gram but also of my wonderfully empathetic daughter who was willing to give away this special remembrance of her great grandmother and friend to her grieving dad.
I love her so.
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