My Granny's Hands

I never knew my paternal Grandmother--My dad's mother Doris. She died before I was born. However, I was fortunate enough to have known and loved my Great Grandmother Agnes. She was a loving and huggy Granny and I remember sitting on her lap and listening to her stories-- And it didn't matter that she sometimes spoke Ojibwe and I didn't; Somehow I knew what she was saying, chalk it up to the special magic that only Great Grandmothers possess.

I have this childhood memory about a time I went out walking with her. It was one of those early spring days, when the air still cool and the mosquitoes and Black Flies are still harmlessly larval. As we meandered through the winding trails occasionally she would point at something--A tree or a bird and she would talk about it as if explaining why it was there. At one point we came across a patch of these little blue and white wildflowers that many people are so familiar with but may not know what they're called--Forget-me-not's. Granny suddenly stopped and began to speak but her voice was different from before, in tone and countenance almost like a person praying. Then she knelt down and picked a little bunch of those Forget-me-not’s and off we went back home. I don't remember much more from that day... I was only 7 years old.

What I do remember is that 2 weeks later my Great Grandmother passed away peacefully, taking her place among the ancestors. Agnes wasn't just my special Granny. She was a well known and respected elder, Nokomis in the Nishnawbe language to many grandchildren and great grand children so the funeral was planned to be quite elaborate, with music and many hundreds of people visiting and making beautiful speeches. On the day of the funeral, my family was making preparations to travel to the neighboring town where Granny had lived her entire life. While my parents got ready I slipped away and went to my favorite kid spot-- the Gully as it was known by all the kids. Of course there was an obligatory creek and lush greenery and there was always the potential for adventure and surprise. As I walked along the bank, my eyes caught a flash of color standing out against the homogeny of the green. It was a patch of those little blue and white wild flowers—Forget-me-not’s. I didn't recall seeing them there before. They just kind of appeared out of nowhere so I decided to pick a bunch for Granny. The funeral was everything it was promised to be. There were hundreds of family and friends packed into the church. Glorious bouquets of expensive flowers were draped over Granny's coffin and there was a processionary line of mourners inching along towards the casket to pay their respects. My dad took her death pretty hard. It was Granny who was there after his mother died. He couldn't bring himself to join the line. But I did, in fact I was the last in line and the only child. I remember people staring at me as if to say what’s that bratty kid doing? When I finally took my spot at Granny’s casket I pulled out a little tissue paper wrapped item from my coat pocket, peeled away the paper and revealed the little wild flower bouquet. I looked for a place to lay them but there was no space--all of those the expensive bouquets had already been placed. Without pretense or hesitation I did what any 7 year old would do-- I gently laid them in Granny's hands. My Granny’s hands that so often held mine but never would again. Many of my family members there that day came up to me afterwards, wrapping me up in hugs and kisses so moved by what they just witnessed. Because in the hustle and bustle and sadness of that day, the one thing that they would never forget was the simple gesture of a 7 year old honoring his beloved Granny and little bouquet of blue and white wildflowers.

Forget me not.

By Jason Fortier