I have a memory of you at Christmas time.
The snow was falling in beautiful large lilting arcs, visible through the wide rectangular windows of your living room at Lakeview.
You sat, hands clasped, on the loveseat in the corner, surrounded by your children, your grandchildren, and your great-grandchildren.
The room was a buzz. A hum of giggles and the bright clinking of china occasionally interrupted by the tearing of wrapping paper and the subsequent gasps of surprise and the “thank you’s” that followed shortly after.
You rose a glass of something to your lips, and after a short sip, something unearthed a deep, wide smile within you.
It grew, like a droplet on dry paper, first in a splash which began in your eyes then soaked deeper, plumping your cheeks and pulling at the corners of your mouth.
Then at last you grinned. You beamed. I did not need to see what you were seeing. I could feel it in the room.
Like the warmth of Christmas lights, and wine, and knitted sweaters, and kisses on
my forehead.
The Love of Family. Pride of Family. Joy of Family.
You held your glass in air for a moment, as if admiration froze you in place, and you were wholly still, with the exception of your hand, trembling gently with the tremor we had all become so accustomed to.
In that moment, the flutter of your family took form in your hands.
The humming of your home seemed to overflow and spill through your fingers, and it spoke more of the ever, ongoing spirit of you, an oscillating rhythmic beating.
You were not conscious of your hands in that moment, as you so often were. A woman of such poise, you never much appreciated the distraction of it. But I had grown so fond of the gentle percussion of your fingers around me when we hugged.
You were a woman so full of life that stillness could not be kept in you. Your spirit could not help but bubble over. You existed in abundance.
At last, the moment faded, your lips closed, you placed the glass in front of you, and you held your hands still. Your eyes never darkened. The brightness there never faded, and you sat quietly, happily, reveling in the joy you so clearly fostered in those that loved you.
When I dream of Heaven, Grandma, I walk up a narrow stairway flanked by white brick walls that take me up and up. I smell chlorinated water, and pine bark, summer lilac and alyssum flowers. I stroll over a plush green lawn, through a verdant garden, and curiously, from above, quiet, languid snowflakes fall.
I walk until the sensation envelopes me; the warm hum of laughter and the buzz of family all around, and the gentle tremble of your hands clasping mine.
Then I know, I have arrived.