It's funny. Out of all the speeches and all the hugs and all of the tear-laden glances, quickly averted, it was the bowl of M&Ms that made me cry.
You get a phone call one afternoon, "your grandma had a heart attack", and none of it seems real. You get another 2 days later "your grandma's kidneys are failing", and it still doesn't sink in. Your mom calls you at 9 in the morning, pain coming through the line, "your grandma died". And you hurt, but you don't really grasp it. You eat dinner the night before, surrounded by family, laughing and joking (except for the silences that go on too long before someone strikes up a conversation again), and you think, this can't
possibly be real. And then you see that silly little bowl of M&Ms, and you know. It's real.
Because that bowl of M&Ms was my Grandma. Sure, the minister can lay out the biographical details; Devoted wife, mother of 5, grandmother of 10, great-grandmother of 5 more. Loved to read and play the organ. Active in her Church, volunteered at the hospital. Came to the U.S. when she was 8, couldn't speak a word of english, and did 2 grades at a time to catch up. And that's her, but it's not her. The M&Ms, those were her.
You'd go visit grandma, and she'd always have a bowl sitting out on the table, always full, and never by chance. The way half the bowl would be peanut butter when my Dad was there, half Peanuts when my Uncle was there. She managed to turn candy into a measure of her thoughtfulness.
That was Grandma. That, and pictures. Go see grandma, get your picture taken, at least 5 times. Always with the same polaroid. Didn't matter that it was ancient, didn't matter that digital cameras gave you instant pictures, and didnt waste film doing it. She had to have her polaroid. You'd have to try like hell to get her to be in the picture, then try even harder to get her to smile for it, but she'd always do it eventually.
Then she'd walk you to the door. She was in her late 80s, and it was all the way down the hall. You'd tell her she didn't need to bother, that you could walk yourself out. She never listened. You went to see Grandma, you got escorted to the door.
And that's all I can really think about right now. I'm sure in time more substantive memories will begin to stick out for me. The vacations we went on, the birthdays, the cruise to her homeland. At some point, all that will matter. But right now it's the little things that stay in my mind. That was Grandma, the little things that showed she cared. It's why a sermon of soaring words and life history and promises of peace couldn't move my family to tears in the same way that that damn bowl could. It's why my cousin reacted the way he did when someone told him it was a perfect gesture. A quick, sad smile, unable to meet you in the eyes. Knowing how important that bowl was to everyone, knowing how it brought everything home.
I don't begin to know what happens from here. I don't know how my Grandpa will go on. I don't know who my mother will turn to from here on out. I don't know what thanksgiving will be like without her, but I imagine is isnt going to be pretty. Right now, I just want someone to walk me to the door.
Bye Grandma, we'll miss you.