My grandma died last year, sometime in February. She was my godmother. Because of her I was born with fair skin and blue eyes. My father’s family always gathered around her table on weekends, she was a matriarch. She was the strong figure in my family – not my grandfather, but her. She could barely read or write by the time she was a grown woman, but she had a passion for learning that I am still to see in another human being. She had six kids, and she made sure they all graduated from university. She also managed to go back to school and get her own degree by the time she had a bunch of grandkids. I was a little girl at the time, and I remember notebooks piled on the dining table, where warm coffee and homemade pastries would sit, always fresh. She was a fighter, a woman with balls. She wrote a letter to the president of Brazil once asking for a job, and for some reason – maybe because she was a phenomenal woman – he responded and met with her one-on-one.
She was adorable and I don’t remember not wanting to be around her once. Not even for a minute. She always had a story to tell, always a smile on her face. The only time I saw her sad was last year, about a month before she died, when I went to see her in the hospital. I was still living in Indianapolis, and I hadn’t seen her for a year. She had been really sick for a while, and I think she probably thought she would die without saying goodbye to me. I remember walking in the door and as soon as she saw me she raised her arms and thanked every saint she could possibly think of because her goddaughter was there. She was frail, pale, but her smile was strong and as powerful as ever. She had this thing about her that made me feel like I was the most special human being alive. I was the granddaughter who clearly inherited her genes, and I’m still the woman in the family who resembles her most. We had always had a different connection from everybody else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
When she died, my father and his brothers found out she had her whole life – and death – carefully organized. She had mapped out how the little money she had accumulated throughout her 90-some years would be distributed amongst each child and grandchild. She left money for her funeral and burial. She didn’t miss a single detail.
Today something was deposited into my account. It was the money she left for me. I thought about her all day long. I felt her around me the whole time, and I thought about what I should do with what my grandma set aside for me.
I went out this afternoon and bought a beautiful white chair I’ve been dreaming about getting for my studio. I think if my grandma could have chosen something to give me, she would make sure it had sometime to do with my education, or how I provide for myself. She would have contributed to that somehow. So I bought the chair. It’s big, the most expensive item in my studio. I know I will be thinking of her every time I’m in there. She’s a part f my environment now, and she is making it more beautiful and practical. Making my life more comfortable. Just like she always did.
