Dear Charon,
I'm thinking about Grandma Caryl today - my grandmother. My
mom named me after her, which is what inspired me to name you
after my mom. It really isn't unusual for me to be thinking about
her, but I'm purposefully remembering her today.
I'm thinking about her in a special way right now because she
died a year ago today. It doesn't seem like that long ago. She
still feels so close. I often imagine that the two of us can still
hop in the car and head over to her house for lunch and a nice
chat, like we used to do at least once a week. I can hear her
cooing at you in that higher voice she reserves just for babies,
laughing with you in that special way she does with toddlers.
I can see her eyes shining with pleasure in the moment, watching
you with joyful interest and much love.
She was one of the first people to hold you. My parents brought
her to the hospital the day after you were born, and I remember
how gentle she was with you, and how she glowed with happiness
when she held you. She loved children; they thrilled her.
She was so good with kids. She impressed me with her ability
to get inside your head, and always knew what you'd enjoy. "Try
'This Little Piggy,'" I remember her telling me one day when you
were cranky. You were still pretty young, and I didn't think you'd
get it, but sure enough, when I grabbed those little toes of yours
and started the rhyme, you were immediately intrigued, and watched
and listened intently. When you figured out the point of the game
was waiting for the tickle at the end, you began giggling at the
start of the rhyme in anticipation.
One day, Gram and I were trying to eat at the table and entertain
you at the same time. You were sitting on my lap, and you were
sick of my games. Gram said, "She's tired. Here, put her next
to us in the carseat." Tired equals carseat? Yeah, right! I decided
to do it, just to show Gram how you could yell. Then I'd scoop
you right back up. You had never fallen asleep without lots of
nursing and rocking and singing, and always in my arms. I put
you in, and Gram immediately started rocking you in the seat and
singing "Rock-a-bye Baby," in her sweet, old voice. I waited for
your cry, but instead you stared at her, mesmerized. Gram was
very patient, and kept going. Your eyelids drooped, then fluttered
open, determined to stay awake. You didn't complain, though. The
song went on, and the rocking continued, Gram staring into your
eyes, a gentle hypnotist. You finally succumbed to her spell.
From then on, I knew Gram had a special kind of magic with babies.
(I tried a similar thing the next day, and you let me know in
no uncertain terms that this was not going to work for me.)
I get angry sometimes that she's not here anymore. I miss talking
with her, especially about you. It always felt good to tell her
about my moments of pride, the joys I was discovering in parenting,
and the concerns I sometimes had about you as a baby or me as
a mother. She always made me feel more pride, more joy, and less
concern. She knew just what to say, and she always meant it. I
constantly felt her love for me and for you.
When she got sick last spring, you and I visited her at the
hospital every day. I wanted us both to enjoy every last precious
moment with her. I remember standing next to her hospital bed,
holding her hand, and both of us watching you. Someone brought
you out of the room to play, and Gram squeezed my hand. "She's
coming right along," she said, giving me a smile that communicated
her confidence in me and in you. I know she wished she could see
you grow up. For some reason, this moment helped to reassure me
that she could picture what was coming for us next, that she could
imagine what you would be like as you got older, what kind of
a kid/adolescent/young adult you'd be.
You still recognize her when I show you photos
of her. ("Who's that, Charon?" "Gramma Caryl!") I think you may
have some memories of her still, and I want to encourage those
to stick with you. I know I will always have stories about her
to share with you, so you'll never lack for memories!
I love you,
Mom
Click on the camera to see Great-Gramma Caryl holding you the
day after you were born!
