Heavy Heart

A while back, I made mention of four lives hanging in the balance.

Three of those lives still do. They cling to the gossamer threads woven for them, two still intertwined in a complete pattern, and one... one now left alone, his threads left to tumble in the wind.

Word trickled down to me this morning of the death of my Gramma.

Gramma had been quite ill for almost a year now, slowly slipping away from us. I know that she is in a wonderful place now- and is once again the beautiful, intelligent, gentle woman I remember so well. My memories of Gramma are filled with her smiles. The way her face lit up when she laughed. And many of them involve some sort of reminder to my Grampa to behave himself. (Which he never did. In fact, I know he still does not. And yes, before anyone can say it, I do indeed take strongly after my Grampa.) Gramma is the one I think of when someone speaks of Southern gentlewoman. Born and bred in the North Country, Gramma had no southern influence in her life- but she was to me the epitome of A Lady.

I can't mourn for Gramma. The tears I shed now are for those left behind. Married almost 70 years, I can not imagine how my Grampa is feeling. Lost somehow does not seem to convey what his heart may hold right now. Just yesterday, Mom told me that Grampa still went in to Gramma every day, and kissed her gently and told her he loved her. They were indeed, the perfect example of two halves becoming one.

We'll miss you Gramma.

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The day marches on. Sun is streaming in through the windows brightly, heating the house. The Locust Brothers still clamor for food, Jo still cowers from DAT, and Sonny still stands in his paddock, sweating in the sun instead of being smart enough to stand in the shade and eat hay. Life seethes around us in many forms. Our job for those who have gone on before is to provide the best care for those left behind- be they people, animals, or a loved African Violet sitting on a windowsill. We pay homage to all they have taught us, and give honor to their memories in these actions.

Never forget those cherished memories. Share them, when you are able, as through the retelling of those memories, we bring those loved and lost back to life with us.

I have a memory of Gramma that always makes me smile. The first time she met Dear Husband.

We were at my Dad's, comfortably camped out in his living room, sharing chat and donuts, and a mug of java. I had moved semi-South, and Gram was worried about me traipsing around alone in a strange place. I smiled, and said, "Don't worry Gramma- I have a body guard."

Dear Husband-To-Be was out with my brothers at the garage. Shortly after assuring Gramma I was in good hands, the porch door opened, and one by one in trooped my herd of brothers. First in was Shorty- known as Shorty from way back when he WAS short. He grew, and stands just shy of 6' 5". Next was Other Brother- no slouch himself, with broad shoulders and a good 6' in height. Next came Baby Brother- a wee bit shorter, but just as broad and strong as the preceding two. Gramma looked up, and smiled as they filed in, a quiet pride in her eyes at the sight of all those strong healthy handsome Grandsons. As she watched the door, Dear Husband-To-Be came in. Six feet of solid muscle, Dear Husband had to tip his shoulders sideways to get in the screen. Gramma stared at him, her beautiful eyes open as wide as they could get, and a blush creeping into her cheeks.

She turned her head and looked at me and said, "My word! I guess you ARE in good hands, aren't you?"

She and Dear Husband struck up a conversation, and Gramma later confided in me that he was a keeper. And she said, "He has the most beautiful eyes!"

That was, and still is, my Gramma.

I love you Gram.