Grams

I can’t even think about her without that ache in my chest becoming so powerful it’s hard to breathe. It’s been six months since her passing and the ache hasn’t dulled — in fact the fullness of her “gone-ness” has only grown as time goes on and I realize that I will never again see her wrinkled face, smell her magic in the kitchen, or feel the strong safety of her hugs. I thought she’d always be around like she’d always been around. Even when we said goodbye I didn’t realize it was goodbye — I wish I had because I would have held her longer.

Her remains remain with my grandfather. He refuses to spread them or bury them, instead he put them under his side of the bed, so she is close while he sleeps. Unlike her ashes, her belongings have been scattered to the four winds, distributed amongst her kids and grandkids. My own box of grandma’s treasures sits untouched. I feel if I open it, that the last traces of my beloved matriarch will disintegrate like an ancient tomb suddenly exposed to air and microbes.

I know this isn’t true and it is my own psyche holding me back. Just the same, I haven’t touched the box in six months. Today, however, is my birthday. It’s the day I’ve been telling myself that I’ll open one last gift from Grams. There is anxiety that what my grandma left me will be too much — and not enough. That there will be no resolution, only more heartache. My therapist thinks it’s time, thinks I need to open the box and process what is inside — both inside me and inside the box. I am not a coward, but this has humbled me — her death has humbled me.

I make a steaming cup of tea to sooth my nerves and grab the box, placing it almost delicately on the table. Black. Four sides. One lid. One lid that I lift with an inhale — there is a faint and familiar smell. Grams. That faint scent brings powerful memories. A lifetime of memories.

The contents don’t disintegrate, instead they stare up at me noiselessly as the whirring in my head makes more noise than a jet engine. On top is a letter, a letter with Grams’ perfect cursive across the front. It’s addressed to me. I pull it to my chest, holding it there for some moments as tears stream down my face like mini waterfalls. I open it and after my name I read:

“My dear, dear adventurer. I don’t have much time. I haven’t told you, but the cancer has consumed my body. I acquiesce to it’s demands and will die. I know you won’t understand. You will demand that I get treatment. I will not, M. I am old and ready for what is next — even if it is nothing.

I have left you this box of a few things that I know you loved and that I hope will bring you thoughts of me when I’m gone. I’ve also left you one of my dearest treasures because I believe that you can appreciate it for what it is — my life’s work. It’s not an empire, but rather my thoughts, my pursuits, my wanderings. Follow those wanderings M, and it might just lead you somewhere as grand as your grandma.

I love you. Be at peace.

Always here,

Grams”

Damn Gram. I laugh out loud at my own alliteration. She would have liked that. She loved a good play on words. Even in death she was able to add a bit of levity and silliness to a serious moment. I miss her so much.

I take a deep breath and begin pulling the contents out one at a time. As promised in her note, there were things from her home and our lives that I had always loved: a recipe box full of recipes from several generations, a small painting she’d created as a young adult, a framed picture of my grandparents shortly after they got married. I pulled out the treasures one at a time until I came to the final thing at the bottom of the box. Her notebook. A black, solid bound notebook. She always had one at her side — near her rocker, in-between the seats of the car on road trips, under her arm when we went on outdoor adventures, on her kitchen counter as we baked. Come to think of it, there was rarely a time Grams was without her little black book. Before her passing, I never paid this any mind. It’s what Grams did. Her black books were a part of her. Why she left me this one was a mystery.

Of course I’d seen inside of them. As a child I’d ask to see when she stopped suddenly and opened its pages to jot down words or a doodle. Doodle — that’s an understatement. Grams was an artist. Not classically trained, and not any less talented or skilled. She could take something from life and put it on paper (or canvass or wood or rock) as if it were real, or a duplicate of the original. She was gifted.

I opened the first page, there at the beginning was a dedication. “To M. Be thorough.” I would be thorough, I’d be slow as I digested my grandma’s parting gift to me. I made myself a nest and another cup of tea and began to work through the pages. Images of my grandfather’s tomato varieties sketched on one page. A recipe she created for a chocolate cake with no dairy and no eggs — vinegar, she noted, was the secret ingredient. A sketch of my mom’s birthday and the lopsided cake my auntie made for her— joy and laughter etched on all of our faces. Notes of places she’d hiked. Places with beautiful rocks, or scenic views. Food they’d tried. I found myself crying again at the beauty of it. She’d made sure that when she was gone, her life remained. Remained for me to touch, and hold, and enjoy. What a gift.

Halfway through was a sketch of one of my favorite spots. It was near the river, towering trees and wild mountains on the distance. She had drawn me into the image, sitting under a tree, the same spot where I’d sit atop my blanket as a child and eat snacks as she waded the shallow waters looking for beautiful stones to bring home. Later it’s be the spot where I read my books, and even later surfed on my phone. One thing remained the same, I remember her bending down to retrieve and examine rocks from the riverbed over and over again. Methodical and meditative. She’d chuck the ones that disappointed or needed more time in the river. She’d gasp and admire the ones that delighted her. The memory brought a smile to my face. When my mind wandered back to the present and back to the drawing, I noticed Grams had marked an “M” on the ground underneath me. That’s me, I thought, that’s my spot.

I kept looking through the book, delighted by the world my grandma saw. After I had passed through all the pages, I felt both exhausted and content — a feeling akin to a giant feast. I wandered to my bed despite there being light left in the sky. I tucked the book in under my pillow, and then myself in under my blankets. I slept and dreamt beautiful and confusing dreams, full of grandma, of food, of life, of treasure.

I woke early the next morning, feeling equally refreshed and at odds with the world. The morning was bright and my mood cheery in spite of the odd feeling. I picked up my grandma’s book and touched the pages again as I sipped my coffee. I came upon the drawing of my favorite place and left it open in front of me. It looked nice. Real nice. Hell, I bet it’d look even nicer in person. I decided right then to go there. Why not? She’d have loved that. I would love that. Plus I already had the day off.

I called my dad and told him where I was going and put together a day pack with some water, food, blankie, and my grandma’s book. I hopped in my car and started a Bear McCreary playlist — this felt like an epic journey and I needed my music to match my mood. The drive was glorious and I felt myself breathing easier as I climbed out of the valley towards the river and up the mountains.

I pulled off the side of the road at the normal spot and put my car into park. When I stepped out in the warm spring air I noted how GOOD it smelled — like trees, sunshine, new growth, and water. The trail to the river wove down through the trees for several hundred yards until there it was, bright, brilliant and a little fuller than normal due to the spring snow melts. Glorious. I walked down the bank toward my favorite spot. There under the tree someone had planted a giant rock, right where I’d normally sit. Odd and slightly annoying. I kicked it to see if it would move, it didn’t, and my big toe stung inside my shoes. Fine, I’d leave it there. I sat with my back to the tree to take it all in, or tried to, but that damn rock was cramping my style. Fine, I’d move it. It wouldn’t be the reason I didn’t have peace out here.

I grunted as I shoved the rock, it was a bit bigger than I thought, and slightly buried. I used my hands to dig around it’s edge and gave it one final push before it rolled out of the way. The dirt cascaded into a hole where it had been and as it did it made a sound like hitting glass. I peeked in the hole and there at the bottom was a jar. I looked around and over my shoulder — as if there would be someone in this wilderness with me — and then grabbed it out. Holding it in both hands, I recognized it. It was from my grandma’s house. I laughed out loud, of course it was. The little “M” under me in the drawing. A giant random rock. This wasn’t coincidence, it was Grams.

I opened the jar and inside was a short note.

“M, when you were born, your gramps and I opened an investment account in your name, every year we added to it. It should be worth something by now. Gramps has the info when you are ready. Do something exciting with it.

Also, please thank your aunties. She helped with all of this — lord knows I couldn’t have moved that rock myself.

P.S. I found these in the river and thought you would appreciate them.

P.P.S. If your grandpa or auntie breathed a word of this to you, tell them I’m haunting them.”

The jar wasn’t empty, I tilted it upside down into my hand and suddenly, filling and the tumbling down around my palm were dozens of gold nuggets. Literal gold nuggets. I stared at them with a sense of wonder and confusion. “I found these in the river...” coming back to me from the note. Grandma had found gold in the river. I laughed again, this time with tears because although I was delighted by this gold treasure, I was equally heartbroken that the real treasure, the real magic maker, was gone. Rest In Peace, Grams. I love you.