I found myself thinking about my grandmother while I was baking. Gluten-free banana bread. My paternal grandmother. She had ten children, was widowed far earlier than she should have been, was diabetic, and liked country music. Of course, she was more than that. She was strong in her faith. She loved to play cards. She liked to sew, bake, and all those domestic traits I've spent years honing. She liked liver, and thought I did too. I've since realized my mother told me I liked all sorts of nasty, vomit-inducing things I never liked- liver, spinach, Brussels sprouts, etc. Although I knew the truth, I never told my grandmother about the liver. She was too excited we shared the taste, and I didn't see the point to rob her of that, even if it was part of a manipulation of a picky-eating child.
By fifteen, I no longer had any grandparents, but she's the one I remember most fondly. I remember being at her apartment one summer for a week or so. I remember little things about her. She liked the California Raisins. I remember how she would speak to her daughter Louise. I remember her face when Louise died. My mother said she liked mugs and bought her many. I don't know if she really collected mugs, but she had a lot of them. She had a fold out couch that I would sleep on and we'd sit there watching country music videos. Before that summer, I hadn't even realized they had such a channel.
She had many strokes, and when she was in a rest home, I brought her cat pillows I had hand sewn. I saw the son my father was during that time. Devoted and overprotective. Compulsive. Outraged. Concerned. She wasn't the woman she used to be, but I would talk to her anyway. I would tell her about school. I would ask her about her day. I would dust her room and make sure the drawers were all perfectly organized, something I've learned I do when I'm stressed and trying to find control. I would make her bed. I would put a blanket on her lap and smooth it out ever so carefully. I would do everything I could to forget I was in a rest home.
A year or two before that, she found out I had been sewing and asked to see some of my projects. She looked them over and told me to keep it up. She also said something about young people not caring about that anymore. I don't sew that much, and I wasn't that skilled at the time, but it's always a skill I've wanted to keep handy. You never know when you might need it. I'll never sew like her, I'm sure, but it makes me smile to know it's a hobby we share. I think to all the amazing things she once made. I think how she managed to care for ten children, even as a widow.
When I was young, she sewed me this beautiful quilt with rabbits she had stenciled and hand painted. I called it my bunny blanket and I always had it in my head it was purple and it wasn't until I was a teen and sullen and angst-ridden and staring at the bed that I ever realized it'd never been purple at all. It was an illusion. The thin red and blue stripes mixed with at least another color made it appear purple. I loved that blanket. I had a matching doll blanket and pillowcase and they were prized possessions. I took them to college my first semester. I packed them to Kansas City briefly. And two years later, I found that treasured blanket in a pile on the floor of the defunct bathroom in my mother's place, soiled from cats. She told me I could take it if I wanted, but she didn't know why I would. I remember staring at her cold expression, leaving with few words, driving over an hour saying things I'm grateful to this day that no one heard.
I'm not going to lie to you, I'm still bitter in ways. That was a turning point for me. Out of every terrible thing my mother had said or done, that made me the most angry. Because she hadn't just done it to me. It was the disrespect to my father, to his mother, to a woman who had done that work by hand, by her diabetic and swollen hands. A woman who didn't have the time to make such a quilt for every grandchild, when she had over twenty. A quilt so many of my cousins would have loved to have had gifted to them. And there it was, soiled beyond repair. A blanket that would never be passed down to my daughter, and she would have surely loved it, trust me. Out of all the belongings, yearbooks, writings, photos, memorabilia that my mother wouldn't let me have, that blanket has infuriated me the most. Perhaps it's because I saw its fate. And I knew its beginning. And it was made by her.
She loved my red hair and blue eyes. She had so many grandchildren, so I treasure every moment I had with her, knowing I had more than others. She wasn't racist. I remember how much she loved one of my younger cousins, and she would go on and on about him. I wasn't jealous, and if only she could see him now and the artist he has become. Oh, wow, would she coo. She loved her children, whether she saw them often or not. After the strokes, she was a shell of her former self. She ended up losing both legs, her ability to speak, and perhaps some of her understanding. But everyone still loved her. My father still visited her day after day. And I made sure everything was where it should be in her drawers. I smoothed the blanket over her lap. I fluffed her pillows. I straightened the remote in a perfect line.
I have these cookbooks that belonged to her. Out of all of her grandchildren, somehow an aunt of mine thought I should have them. I imagine I'm baking with her, mixing a bowl by her side, talking with her. I imagine we're talking about craft projects, and my dad, and some show on the television. I don't think she'd mind my obsessive traits as much as some. I think she'd like looking at my photos. Reading my stories. Seeing The Redhead who was a cuter child than I ever was. She would love her curls and her personality. I think we'd skip talking about religion. And politics. She wouldn't be put off by my charitable projects like others, or act offended by how Mister Man pays for people's meals (even though some people act like they are, but let us pay anyway). She's one of the reasons I'm so conscientious about everyone's allergies and diets. I think she'd be okay with the person I've become. But I still wouldn't tell her about the liver. I'd swallow every last disgusting bite, no matter how badly I would want to vomit. It'd be worth sharing that taste, even if it was a lie. She'd probably tell me some recipe to try, and I would gladly accept the challenge, all the while, wishing I could get that taste from my mouth, but savoring it just the same.
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