on the edge of memories

My mind is now imprinted with the most memorable of days with Nana - the growing up. The old house on McInnis Drive, yellow-tiled floor, sink overlooking the sloping backyard and bird feeder, toast piled high at breakfast, the mini-glasses filled with orange juice. The sheets hanging on the clothesline, twin beds with Garfield and Smurf sheets, Nana allowing us to sleep way too late to then quietly make her way down the hall to wake us up, the Big Wheels in the driveway, yard work - dreaded yard work - and rolling down the huge hill.

I know that I cannot go back, I know. Some of these memories I've not thought about for years, years. They're so vivid now; I'm standing there right on the edge of them, in the doorway of the kitchen, behind the hedges, watching my 12-year old self rake leaves. I am there again.

And at 3am I am there, too. I wake up to these former things that are coming back to life in my memory.

___________________________

Grandmother. I imagine people taking me a little less seriously when I tell them my "grandmother" has passed on, that maybe this doesn't affect us as deeply as the death of a parent or spouse. And so I am more eager now, than ever, to call her Nana, to make her more human, more personal to everyone.

He was right - she's the most selfless and humble person we knew. She gave us every ounce of her; yes, everything, at any time. And this was her Round 2. Perhaps what she'd screwed up the first time would be come her teacher, presenting her the opportunity give again, teach anew, mother again. So, she did.

And she changed the course of our lives.

Who would we be without her? Where would our paths have led us if she'd not walked them with us?

Our thankfulness runs deep.

{Written October 12, 2011}