Behind me, on a shelf above my head, sit two worn, wooden frames containing images of beautiful young women. Both would one day become my grandmother.
I have had the great fortune of knowing grandparents, great grandparents, and even great great grandparents in my life. Each informing who I am to some degree. Each offering me clues about what I’m capable of. They are the people who created my family and who formed me within my family.
There is one I could not know, however, and she too has formed me.
My maternal grandmother, Vavo Lionelha, died when her oldest child was 15 years and her youngest was 8 months. Her legacy has been fraught with sorrow, but also unwavering faith and diligence.
As her children were left with an ever expanding void, the way each filled that void became their own journey. Through those efforts, her grandchildren were blessed with unquantifiable gifts. I’ve always felt that way about my brother and cousins. There is something rich in our blood and we are fortified by our shared experiences through her.
It is precisely due to Vavo Lionelha’s absence that an interest in family took such a hold of me. I cannot calculate the number of hours I have spent listening to my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents tell and re-tell stories of their lives. I have been mining the wisest of them for intel since I was old enough to realize I knew nothing of great value.
And why, partially, I became very close to my paternal grandmother, Grandma Esther. We shared a friendship beginning when I went to college and lasting for my entire adult life.
When finally she couldn’t say my name, I spent our time locked into her milky grey stare, telling her every wonderful thing she did for me, gave me, or said to me. I told her over and over how much I learned about being a friend, mother, and daughter from her. She didn’t recognize many people in her last year of life, but she knew me. Her face lit up the moment our eyes met and my heart lit up too.
Both of my grandmothers have been a strong voice in my internal narrative. Their mysteries and familiarities mine to access for life.
I’ve had those framed pictures up for decades giving me comfort, strength, and a little day dreaminess.
With the glow of their very promising lives shining on their faces, they are fearless and hopeful.
They look the way I feel sometimes.