I opened up my mail this morning and saw I had a note about my family tree. It was in reference to my grandmother’s grandmother, but when I took a look I found myself just staring at my grandmother’s name and the dates of her birth and death. I loved her very much. It fascinates me that someone for whom I cared so deeply is totally unknown to my children and grandchildren.
There is a picture, somewhere, of Grandma and me ready to head off for Sunday School in Scott. She stood there somberly staring at the camera and I was to her left, holding her hand. I remember that morning. I remember the smells of rural Indiana in the 1950’s. I remember the scent and feel of her. It is so real . . . and it doesn’t exist for my descendants. Then, again, she never smelled the sun-kissed blond hair of Robert William and Quentin.
I am the link, but I can’t make them real to each other. It’s a bit frustrating. That’s the way things are. Still, I am aware of the connection and when I toss one of the comforters Grandma made over her great-grandsons and great-grandchildren, I am comforted.
I was contemplating the other day how much I missed my mom and I started talking to one of my daughters about something that my mom used to do. My girls love to hear about my mom but she just isn’t real to them. She meant so much to me and they have absolutely no idea who she really was. And what is so confusing is that I find myself sounding more and more like my mom each day and they have no idea. They don’t know this. The girls often say they wish they could have met my mom and I think to myself, just look at me and my sisters and you have a good piece of her. But it isn’t the same.
And it makes me miss her more.