My paternal grandmother and I never shared a particularly close bond. Circumstances and distance shaped our relationship; she had a much deeper connection with my cousins. As a child, that reality was difficult for me to accept. She often misspelled my name on birthday cards, and the one time I allowed myself to be vulnerable and cried in front of her, she took a long drag from her cigarette and, without a hint of empathy, asked from the other side of the room, “What did you do to deserve that?”
Unlike the doting grandparents you see in movies, she was a quiet presence at my wedding, not truly engaged. Looking back, it’s somewhat amusing that she forgot to wear her dentures, but in the moment, the sting of her indifference was as sharp as the lace of my veil.
I’m unsure why those memories linger, but they do.
Last week, when my father told us that her health had declined and this was the end, I tried to recall happier times. Those memories didn’t involve just her and me; instead, they revolved around her joyful moments with those I cherished. My dad often mentions that she never missed any of his football games, and relatives have shared delightful stories of her homemade pies and rich ravioli soup. She was a no-nonsense woman, and I certainly appreciate that quality.
That night, I dreamed of new beginnings and farewells. In my dream, my grandmother visited my home—a place she had never seen—wrapping me in her arms in a way I had never experienced. We were in the kitchen, my back facing the window above the sink. Although I couldn’t see it, I could feel the morning sun pouring in, warming the floor and illuminating an otherwise dark space. The hug was realistic, complete with Grandma’s warm smile and her distracted glances toward the window. She waved silently, and I knew my grandfather was waiting for her, honking the horn of his cherished Chrysler.
This morning, I was ready to text my dad about the dream when his message arrived first: “Grandma passed. She left us around 1 a.m.”
I wonder why she came to me. Perhaps it’s because I write; perhaps it’s because others read my words. Maybe she wanted me to share that she has finally found peace and happiness. Maybe she wanted us all to feel the comfort of her resting state, especially as we navigate the heavy reality of her absence. Or perhaps, after years of misplacing the F in “Stephanie,” she wanted me to hold onto something good.
It’s okay, Grandma. Everything is alright.
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Summary
The author reflects on a relationship with her distant grandmother, who has passed away. Despite their lack of closeness, dreams of her offer comfort and a sense of peace. The article highlights memories and the complexities of familial relationships while offering links to resources on home insemination.