08 February 2016

Dear Grandma

Seven years ago, at this very moment, our little part of the village was bustling with police activity and a dark cloud full of grief that would continue to take up residence for a long time after. Today, it was a bright, sunny, quiet morning with few noises when I left to go to work.  They're calling for more snow tomorrow.  When I read back through your journals you mention, quite often, the beauty of the snow.  I know how much you loved winter, and that helps me appreciate it more than I did even as a wonder-filled child. I think of you every time I look out the window and see it sparkling under the moonlight.  When I'm standing at the sink in the kitchen doing dishes, I love to watch the birds at the mock orange bushes.  Cardinals often take a perch to watch me too but I imagine you know that.

There are still many moments where I feel like someone is standing behind me, or is hanging out in the next room watching me.  I see movement out of the corner of my eye often.  The boys experience this too and sometimes I catch Sean talking to you, and my dad too.  Occasionally, upon walking through the door after work, the smell of your perfume lingers heavily in the kitchen.  And quite often you come to me in my dreams and I awake feeling like I was truly in your presence.  I am thankful, every time, for these visits.  

I am also thankful that the boys still have such vivid and clear memories of you.  They were so young when you were taken from us.  I believe I was eight when my Great Grandma Trone passed away, and while I do remember her, there is really only one clear, full memory, sitting with her on the couch at Grandma Wagner's house, she may have been doing embroidery or something.  I do remember talking to her on more than one occasion, but so very little.  The boys remember so much of you and my dad and I'm pretty sure a lot of that has to do with how much we continue to talk about you and share stories.

It makes me think about how much I feel like I know your own mother and father, too, and Aunt Annie, who apparently was a bit of a spitfire and I would probably have gotten along well with.  I asked so many questions as I got older, wanting to know everything. Hanging on the edge of my seat as you told me of your childhood.  I look around this house and I can feel the history, even though I've changed so many things.  Perhaps as I peel away the metaphorical layers, tearing out the walls to expose the old, flowery wallpapers that cover the plaster, I'm peeling away more layers of myself and absorbing the wisdom that has run through this house for well over a century.

I believe in energy.  And I continue to feel my own changing every day.  My grief will always be a part of me, but so will you and everything that I have gained from having you as such a strong force in my life.

Missing you, as always.

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40. mother. earth lover. mover. creater.