Remember Me
Her name was Carmela Cornelia. She wasn't fond of that middle name, she said, but it made for a lovely case of alliteration. Her married name did, after all, also start with a C. I remember as a kid I'd sing her name to myself because I thought it was so beautiful. And any time I heard either of those names, which, to be honest, wasn't that often, I'd think of Grandma.
I thought of Grandma this morning, too. I drew the car up to the red light and stopped, glancing at my hands as they gripped the steering wheel. The sun shone from the east, and the rays caught the skin of my right hand such that I looked at it twice. The epidermal layer looked smooth and shiny, almost translucent in the bright morning light. Had I not known they were my hands, I'd have thought they were my grandma's.
Grandma has been gone for 9 years now, and I miss her more and more at times like that. A smell, a hand, a word, all of them can conjure the image of Carmela. I remember so much about her: the hard, pink curlers my mother rolled into her hair once a week; the fact that she couldn't eat tomatoes; the bed stilts my dad kept handy for when she visited; the bread bags of Italian cookies she'd bring; the warm scent of her shampoo; the poems she'd read to us and the games she'd play with us at the kitchen table. Grandma had issues with her shoulder, probably with what is now commonly known as the rotator cuff. She'd need to use her good arm to help the bad arm when reaching for something. If she needed help, she'd ask sheepishly, as if she were putting us out or something. That bad shoulder never kept her from helping with anything around the house or just playing a slightly wicked game of Zim Zam with us.
Grandma had kids young and my dad had kids late, so Carmela was somewhat older than other grandmothers. In fact, I was pregnant with the twins the last time I saw her. She'd been placed in a care facility because she was no longer able to speak and had other various health issues. But I remember the visit well. I didn't know what to expect: I'd been told Carmela was frail and that she might not even understand who I was. And maybe I am remembering incorrectly, but the minute Grandma saw Gina and me, her hazel eyes lit up. The Carmela that we knew so well came back, and for just a few moments, we were back in that kitchen again. We told her that I was expecting a baby (I didn't know there were two babies in there), and her eyes twinkled with pleasure.
One of Grandma's favorite poems to read to us was Remember Me, by Judith Viorst. If you've never had the pleasure to read it, I invite you to do so now. As kids we'd get to the end of the poem, watch Grandma giggle in her chair, and ask her to read it again. Carmela knew the poem was somewhat crude, but it was so funny! She'd bring the book back toward herself and start over again at the top. When those peals of laughter reverberated around the room, Mom usually knew what was up.
When I read that poem now, I might still chuckle a little, but I usually get bleary-eyed instead. Even though we didn't see Grandma all that often, the things she did made certain we'd always remember her. It's the little things, people, the little things. No one needs to step in the dog doo to be remembered.
I thought of Grandma this morning, too. I drew the car up to the red light and stopped, glancing at my hands as they gripped the steering wheel. The sun shone from the east, and the rays caught the skin of my right hand such that I looked at it twice. The epidermal layer looked smooth and shiny, almost translucent in the bright morning light. Had I not known they were my hands, I'd have thought they were my grandma's.
Grandma has been gone for 9 years now, and I miss her more and more at times like that. A smell, a hand, a word, all of them can conjure the image of Carmela. I remember so much about her: the hard, pink curlers my mother rolled into her hair once a week; the fact that she couldn't eat tomatoes; the bed stilts my dad kept handy for when she visited; the bread bags of Italian cookies she'd bring; the warm scent of her shampoo; the poems she'd read to us and the games she'd play with us at the kitchen table. Grandma had issues with her shoulder, probably with what is now commonly known as the rotator cuff. She'd need to use her good arm to help the bad arm when reaching for something. If she needed help, she'd ask sheepishly, as if she were putting us out or something. That bad shoulder never kept her from helping with anything around the house or just playing a slightly wicked game of Zim Zam with us.
Grandma had kids young and my dad had kids late, so Carmela was somewhat older than other grandmothers. In fact, I was pregnant with the twins the last time I saw her. She'd been placed in a care facility because she was no longer able to speak and had other various health issues. But I remember the visit well. I didn't know what to expect: I'd been told Carmela was frail and that she might not even understand who I was. And maybe I am remembering incorrectly, but the minute Grandma saw Gina and me, her hazel eyes lit up. The Carmela that we knew so well came back, and for just a few moments, we were back in that kitchen again. We told her that I was expecting a baby (I didn't know there were two babies in there), and her eyes twinkled with pleasure.
One of Grandma's favorite poems to read to us was Remember Me, by Judith Viorst. If you've never had the pleasure to read it, I invite you to do so now. As kids we'd get to the end of the poem, watch Grandma giggle in her chair, and ask her to read it again. Carmela knew the poem was somewhat crude, but it was so funny! She'd bring the book back toward herself and start over again at the top. When those peals of laughter reverberated around the room, Mom usually knew what was up.
When I read that poem now, I might still chuckle a little, but I usually get bleary-eyed instead. Even though we didn't see Grandma all that often, the things she did made certain we'd always remember her. It's the little things, people, the little things. No one needs to step in the dog doo to be remembered.
Remember Me by Judith Viorst
What will they say
When I've gone away:
He was handsome? He was fun?
He shared his gum? He wasn't
Too dumb or too smart? He
Played a good game of volleyball?
Or will they only say
He stepped in the dog doo
At Jimmy Altman's party?
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