“Have you eaten?
“Do you have money?”
“How are you getting home?”
“Do you say your prayers?”
These simple questions once evoked such agitated eye rolls from me.
The soft pitch of notes gliding into the air, like the chorus, of a song on repeat. Words dangling in the tranquil space, between my grandmother and me, will be no more.
Grace, or Gracie, as she began calling herself, embodied the essence of her name filled with quiet strength and endurance. Her silence, masking the savage volcano that could erupt when provoked.
But somehow, Gracie always survived whatever life threw at her.
And life’s storms didn’t wait for her to mature; it rained on her from birth. From what I’ve been able to piece together, she always shied away from talking about her past, saying, “Oh that was so long ago. How do you expect me to remember?”
Mere weeks after being born in St. Vincent, Grace’s mother, my maternal great grandmother got sick and died. But while all this was happening, Grace’s father was not in the picture, but I believe, very much alive, established and perhaps married.
And Grace, not even a year old was given away. Grace had an older sister, whom her grandmother was already looking after. So, to afford Grace a better life than what she thought she could offer, Grace’s grandmother gave her to a woman from Trinidad. Someone she knew for years – a woman named Marie – who was married and childless with a stable life. My grandmother grew up with her adoptive parents in Trinidad and up until the day she passed, no one could ever tell her she wasn’t Trini to de bone.
Yet, for all Gracie endured, she was kind, firm and filled with beautiful laughter. I hold foggy memories of her, curled up on her lap, as she sat, in a Morris chair, rocking back and forth. Grace was my anchor. She, my grandfather, aunt and uncle, raised me in a two-story house, with a big yard, fruit trees, birds and noisy dogs. It was mostly good, but the rules of the house caged and depressed my roving teenage soul.
It was as though I paid for the sins of my mother – who was young and unwed like her mother before her, and mother before her and so on. Looking back, it’s a family curse that needs to be broken, a curse of women loving the wrong men, getting in situationships or of good relationships being ripped apart because of untimely, almost supernatural happenings.
And like my mother, I too, left the family home. Leaving was rough, packing bags to words that scalded my heavy heart. My grandmother and I didn’t speak for a couple of years. And even in that time apart, in silence and pain. Her presence never left me, and in this time of her departure from earth, certain memories live on.
Standing by her side, head barely inching over the table as she methodically poured ingredients in cups and spoons, making a sticky dough that would turn into delicious Sweet Bread. Sometimes, she’d hum as she kneaded, and that was the best time to ask questions. I watched and helped her water plants, in pots and hanging baskets, stacked under the lone Julie Mango tree. Ferns, hibiscus, orchids, every plant receiving individual love, kind words and touch.
Despite her age, Grace never stopped wanting to learn, I remember one time, we all hopped into the car, to pick her up from the YMCA. I ran ahead, lights flickering, the big green pool looked lonely. I ran until I saw the brightly lit classroom and peeking through a window, there she was, white icing on her fingertips. I can still taste her homemade wine and jams – cherry, guava and plum and pepper sauce too.
Grace thirsted for a connection with God in all His forms. Dragging me along to church, Anglican to Catholic to Unity to Bahai. She taught me to read psalms and Novenas.
She once authored a poem after much prodding from me. I sat and watched, crouched at the foot of the living room chair. I can’t find it, but I’d rather believe it hides somewhere safe.
The kitchen was a happy place; it was more than food. It was where, my brothers and aunt and uncle and mom and friends, and I often sat in glee, as Grace taught us to play card games. I can still hear the laughter and candid conversations. Looking back, she was the root of our family tree.
When we started talking again, I visited, never once leaving home empty-handed.
Yes, home – grandma’s house is always home – no matter how faded it now looks. She’d load me up with containers and when I protested, she’d say, “It will waste, if it stays, I cooked too much.”
And though, I never asked, she’d skillfully dip into the pocket of those flowered house dresses she adored, slipping, crisp tightly folded blue notes into my palm. I laugh at the day I came by, in a pair of jeans with holes, she paused, looking me up and down, “Your pants have holes, are you sure you’re all right?”
But, without warning, our little conversations stopped, and the cooking, baking and plant watering did too. She even stopped reading and when I asked why, she flashed a jaded smile and said, “Every time I read, I forget and keep reading the same thing over again.”
On other visits, I watched as she struggled to walk down the stairs.
I watched as she tried to stab the piece of meat on her plate, or guide the fork to her mouth. Did no one else see? How invisible was she? But it clicked for me the day I stood at the bedroom door, her eyes squinting as she asked, “When did you get tattoos?”
Taken aback I stared at my grandmother like a confused cat for a moment, but it was enough time for her clarity to return and fizz over in bursts of rich laughter, when I said, “I’m not your daughter, I’m your granddaughter.”
It got worse from there; we were all losing her piece by piece, stupidly thinking we had time.
On other visits, I watched her in bed, curled into a ball, skin wrinkled and sagging, tinier than she’d ever been. I watched as she had to be fed, no longer craving food, pushing plates away.
She never asked who I was, even when she complimented me on my rings, coloured hair or outlandish bags and in turn, I never asked if she knew who I was. These small things sparked her curiosity and made her eyes flicker, assuring me that Gracie was in there somewhere. The Grace who taught me how to bathe, the Grace that combed my hair, into plaits, with bows. The same Grace who quarreled when I came home late from nights at university, who refused to let me spend the night out, even at the age of nineteen. She projected the notion and maybe rightly so, of men being untrustworthy, “Have your head on because talk can lead to other things.”
I watched her in the hospital bed, asking when she could come home and I cried inside, watching, as nurses and doctors casually passed by…no humanity, in their distracted eyes. I watched and smiled, amazed by her strength, when she miraculously learned to use the walker. I watched as she was able once again, to climb those stairs, to rest in her beloved room. I watched as she never crept down the stairs again. I recall looking at her, reflecting on the frail image who more than likely, had not a clue who I was and unexpectedly, she looked up, asking softly, in sing-song fashion, “What’s wrong?”
I watched for the last time, my grandmother, as she lay stretched out, clutching a rag, breathing, shallow and laboured. I watched her stomach rise and fall, slowly, sadly and thought, She isn’t going to be here much longer. The thought pierced my heart, but my brain was like, at last, she has been suffering far too long. I kissed her forehead and wished her well.
A week later, Gracie was gone.
On the day of her funeral, when we all got back from the chapel, standing in the front yard reminiscing, each, grasping at our own cherished memory of gran, a rainbow suddenly appeared over the house, and I knew she was saying, “Hey, Gracie is okay!”
I smiled. Finally at peace, finally at rest, finally back to being herself. I know Grandma’s prayers hugged and kept us safe and that she still sends us love from up above, wondering if we ate, said our prayers, if we have money and how we’re getting home.
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