My grandmother was a petite, plump woman with a gentle demeanor. Her voice was as high-pitched as the classic cartoon grandmas, and her favorite pastimes included indulging in soap operas, preparing an array of treats for her pudgy dog, and chain smoking. Instead of expressing surprise with a simple “Really?”, she would respond with a soft, “Oh?”
In stark contrast to my memories, my mother often recounts tales of a vibrant young woman who, during the icy winters of Michigan, would sneak moonshine for her father, hidden beneath a long trench coat—who would suspect a twelve-year-old girl? She even had the chance to meet Al Capone, sharing a handshake with the notorious figure.
As a teenager, she performed in bars, strumming her guitar and singing to help support her family. When my family gathered at her and my grandfather’s home in Miami, we would lounge by the pool, captivated by their musical duets, with her guitar gently strumming along.
My grandmother had a fierce spirit; once, when her much taller son insulted her, she promptly knocked him down to remind him who was boss. However, her demeanor softened when it came to my grandfather. Whenever he spoke harshly, she maintained a calm, collected expression, leaving me to wonder why she didn’t stand up for herself more. My grandfather was a rugged man, quick to frustration, fond of his whiskey, and he expected dinner to be served promptly at six. Yet, he had his softer moments—like when he mesmerized my sister and me with the classic “Where’d my finger go?!” trick or made us giggle by popping out his dentures.
In her sixties, my grandmother quit smoking, but it was too late. A decade later, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Faced with the possibility of losing her, my grandfather began to understand just how much she meant to him. He genuinely wanted to care for her but struggled with how to express that sentiment.
As my grandmother fought her illness, the telephone became one of her few comforts. With my grandfather often away and not much for conversation, she relied on calls to stay connected to her loved ones, to life itself. The phone became her lifeline. As the effects of radiation and chemotherapy took their toll, she grew too weak to hold the phone. This change led her into a deep depression.
Then, something remarkable happened. My tough-skinned grandfather, stepping out of his comfort zone, decided to buy her a thoughtful gift: a portable headset, allowing her to talk without having to hold the phone. He felt a swell of pride for this kind gesture, having crossed a boundary he had never dared to breach before.
Unfortunately, my grandmother’s health continued to decline, and the headset remained unopened. She passed away before she could ever use it. Witnessing my grandfather mourn her loss was a profound testament to love.
He may not have been one to dispense wisdom, but through his grief, I learned the crucial lesson of expressing love and gratitude in the moment. Sometimes, the “now” can slip away before you know it. Questions like “If this were the last time you saw someone, would they know how much they mean to you?” resonate deeply with me. I won’t shy away from showing my feelings—I’ll declare my love, making us both blush if that’s what it takes.
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In summary, my grandfather’s journey taught me that love must be expressed in the present, for tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. It’s a lesson worth sharing with everyone you cherish.