I never
knew my grandmother. She passed away from a tubal pregnancy when my
mother was 11 years old in the early 1930s. Her family lived on a farm
out in the country, and the doctor didn't arrive "in time."
Sometimes I think my mother was so young that she didn't truly understand
the cause of her mother's death. She grew up fast, taking over the household
chores and helping to raise her brothers and sister.
I only
heard bits and pieces about my grandmother as I was growing up. Either
the memories faded, or it was too difficult for my mom to talk about
her mother. Or, perhaps I wasn't listening, unaware of how important
my lineage would be to me as I became a mother and grandmother myself.
My siblings, cousins and I gathered up what we knew and began to weave
a fabric, pieced together from stories we heard from our parents, aunts,
uncles and distant relatives. We hold tight to our own created "memory"
of our dear grandmother. It helps us feel her presence and build a connection
to our family roots.
When
I was 21 years old I met my grandmother's sister. I walked in her front
door and my great aunt held her hand over her heart and mumbled her
sister's name. It was the first time anyone had told me I looked like
my grandmother. Since then, I've seen pictures and notice the resemblance.
Somehow this helps me feel even more connected. But the true connection
came when I started having children of my own.
It's
funny but grandparents and grandchildren do relate in ways that toss
out responsibility, pressure and judgment. As a young mother I yearned
for that relationship and found an inner voice guiding me when my children
were sick, when I layed awake on sleepless nights while worrying about
normal parenting issues, and when I felt lonely or confused. Many times
I have felt guided, calmed, loved and nurtured by a female presence
- one that surrounds me so strongly that I can almost see her on the
wheat fields, her cotton dress flapping in the wind, her arms around
a baby, and her soul glistening in the sun. I long so much to know her
that it hurts, and yet, I know she is with me. I know she is
there when I need her. I know she is present, by my side. She is smiling,
and watching her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and now
great, great grandchildren grow up. She is not forgotten.
A few
years ago I wrote this poem for her...
Eva
I
never knew my grandmother
She was christened Eva Marie
And born in Range, Wisconsin
In eighteen ninety-three
I
never held her hand in mine
Nor sat upon her lap
She never sent me presents
Or woke me from my nap
I
never called her "Nana"
And I never touched her face
Before I joined her family
She quietly left this place
I
hold her wedding picture
In my hands and stare awhile
At the wonder in her eyes
And at the beauty in her smile
Deep
within her heart that day
Were dreams and plans to share
And promises forever
To the children she would bear
What
happened to her promises?
Where are the plans she made?
What happened to her wedding dress?
And where's her body laid?
I
never knew my grandmother
But often as I pray
I open up my heart and then
I ask her please to stay
I
share with her my problems
All my joys we celebrate
I ask her why she left us
But I know it's not too late...
To
talk about her grandchildren
And all the years she's missed
I feel her presence in my soul
As if it has been kissed
Your
promise was forever
Though your wedding day is gone
In the hearts of all your grandchildren
Your dreams and plans live on
