My Grandmother Is Gone, And So Is My Childhood

When my grandmother passed, I did not cry. I stared into space with a blank face and quiet acceptance. I told myself that her passing was inevitable. She lived a long, happy life. Yet, every time December passes, I feel a sinkhole in my heart and soul. 

Moving on is the only acceptable choice, but as time goes on, the memories of her fade away a little more. I forget that mourning can be sad, but it can be transformed into gratitude through the act of remembering, honoring and cherishing the memories I was lucky enough to experience alongside her.

My grandmother meant the world to me.

She had long, black hair. Loved plants. Vibrant green vibes cascaded from the corners of the kitchen walls and swept across the floor. We both loved coffee. Serving cups of coffee was her ritual; no one made it like she did! She’d set the stovetop ablaze in orange and blue flashes. The flames were so high, it would stretch over the bottom of the pot. 

The ivory light reflected off the milk, boiling bubbling and frothing. She used a spoon to scoop the sticky milk skin that formed from the heat. Brewed a fresh pot of black coffee and poured steaming hot milk into the cup. I watched the coffee become lighter in shade. “¿Tu quieres café? (“Do you want coffee?”)” she would ask all the time.

She lectured me about learning Spanish constantly, but I’d shy away from it. I used to feel guilt for not learning Spanish more seriously when she was alive. I now realize how silly of a feeling that was. There’s no right or wrong way to embody your heritage or culture. I’ll always be connected to certain customs and habits. 

The kitchen bought us all together, even on non-holidays. Pastelillos in sizzling oil, baked pernil, crispy and tender. Cold Malta Goya, piraguas, Keebler export sodas and sopa de salchichon. All of these remind me of my grandmother, her love, her home, her heritage. 

Her passing was my first personal experience of grief. As I grew up, I spoke with her less and less. I wondered if it was supposed to be that way. Does growing up mean watching your family from a distance as you navigate the world?

My grandmother and my childhood are now gone. 

I only know for certain that she’s happy. Grief can be a fire, a motivator. I live on, carry her heritage and memories with me, so in a way, she can, too. We last spoke when I graduated high school, but there’s so much more I would’ve wanted her to see. I think about her now and then, life has changed so much she has passed. I cry more often now. Though I know she’ll be with me, eternally, in my memory. 

Featured image via the author