Years ago, when I was ill, my then seventy-something year old grandmother came to care for me at my home. I can still remember the day Granny arrived. I was in bed, and I heard the catch of the lock, the jingle of her keys, as she opened the door downstairs. I gathered my strength, and made it down the stairs, stopping to sit on the sofa near the front door, exhausted, barely able to sit upright.
She smiled when she saw me, and I still remember her saying, “Oh Mich, why didn’t you call sooner.” For the first time since getting sick, I allowed myself to shed tears, pent up for weeks. She took my face in her hands and wiped away my tears. That day, her bright smile, and boundless energy were their own version of medicine. For the next several weeks, she held my hand, cared for me on every level, and she talked.
She told me about growing up in South America, and about her parents, and siblings. She was full of stories, and we were like girl scouts telling tales and giggling.
My grandma is gone now, and I miss the conversations and storytelling the most. That time sits close to my heart. I now look back at that illness as a gift. It was our last true time together with all her memories intact. Now I truly realize the privilege of being the memory keeper.
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