We sit on a creaky pew, my grandmother and I. My grandfather is at the pulpit. It is summer in the Finger Lakes region of New York: sticky in the rolling hills that are scattered with ice-cream stands, bed and breakfasts, and vineyards.
My grandfather blesses everyone and encourages the congregation to pass the peace to those around us. I don’t like passing the peace. It makes me nervous, but my grandmother welcomes everyone cheerfully while I shake as few hands as possible before I start to sit down. A woman brushes up to my grandmother, puts her arm around her and asks, while looking at me, “And who is this?” I stand again.
“This is…”my grandmother looks at me with a mixture of pride and love. She places her hand on my arm.
“This is…”
Her hand stays on my arm and I can tell she is realizing that while she knows I mean something to her, she can’t remember who I am or what it is I have to do with her. She cocks her head to the side and laughs like she is working on a fun puzzle and she’s pleasantly stumped. I study her in this moment. I can imagine how frustrating this must be but I am envious that my grandmother doesn’t let on. When I am frustrated, or sad, or scared, it is written all over my face. Plus, I bring everyone I’m around down with me.
My grandmother doesn’t let on to any of that when she asks, “Who are you again?”
I’m over at Makes You Mom today sharing a little bit about my Grandmother Jeanne Ives Lewis. She was pretty fancy. Stop over if you’d like to meet her.
love this. love all of these. you are too prolific for me to write a thoughtful reply to all of your blogs, but please know that i ready every.last.word. and i am inspired and challenged and more thoughtful because of them.
Thanks, Alison. I really appreciate this comment.