To Sonia–Memories
Richmond Pond Sunrise
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As a child I shyly adored her. She was a dear and a wonderful grandmother who loved me in the fullest and simplest and quietest of ways. But once I left home, the real gifts came–Gram as listener, Gram as friend, as confident, as deep unconditional witness of my struggling young adult journey.
Together we were the best hand-holders. We would hold hands for a long time—our hands were about the same size and shape, tiny. When marked against the other, a matching set of four. We would sit on her couch and talk and talk, holding hands the entire time. No sweaty palms, no fidgety movements, absolutely no self-consciousness at all. Quiet hand-holding. Unconditional hand-holding. I have never in my 74 years found a hand to hold that fits better in mine than that of my Grandma Sonia’s.
I would come home from NYC to Scranton as often as I could. Monthly? Who knows? It never felt enough. I would spend Saturdays with her. Eventually she would always say the same thing:
“Nan, I have nothing to feed you for lunch.” At the time, I was a finicky, ridiculously over-committed, somewhat ungrounded vegetarian.
Inevitably, Gram would whip together a magical combination of things: a little soup broth, some kasha, a hard-boiled egg. A feast of fabulous Gram-food. All the while, talking and listening, smoozing and gabbing. The food that she offered me was beyond-delicious, a gift of her kind, gentle heart.
Then, for no particular reason, inevitably, INEVITABLY, I would get swept by a wave of total exhaustion. I would find my way to her couch, sit down and rest. She would insist, “Lay down, rest, it’s okay.”
I never wanted to “waste” time with her by sleeping. Nevertheless, I would almost against my will, every single time, fall into the deepest, most restful and warmed sleep, arising later to the click of her crochet needles, feeling fully and wholly renewed.
I would joke about her magic couch.
It is not a joke.
I know today that the profound safety of my Grandmother’s love warmed my healing sleep, as she sat, so close, forever, by my side.
(Written in 1988 after her death)
~~~
How does memory work?
As a memoirist, I am captivated by memory,
How it changes and dances and shifts,
How it lives so deeply inside,
Available in the present moment.
Check this out—here’s Ms. Wikipedia:
is encoded and stored
and retrieved when needed.
It is the retention of information over time
for the purpose of influencing future action.
So—my Grandmother Sonia does live inside me.
~~~
The Memory Project is a celebration of Ysaye Barnwell, singer, songwriter, and founding member of the magical a cappella group, Sweet Honey in the Rock.
Here is the video celebration of Ysaye’s 75 birthday, honoring her lifelong commitment to music that heals individual hearts and creates collective liberation.
~~~
You are the voice that whispers all I need to hear
I know a please a thank you and a smile will take me far
I know that I am you and you are me and we are one
I know that who I am is numbered in each grain of sand
I know that I’ve been blessed again, and over again
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes
I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me
To see the beauty in the world through my own eyes”
The final verse.
Full lyrics available here
~~~
Like the picture
Of the Pond,
My grandmother’s love
Is available to me.
Smooth
And
Steady.
Softly
Flowing
With
Gentle
Protection
And
Care.
She accompanies me.
She supports me.
She is with me.
I am sure.
Stay blessed,
Aruni