She Was Granejo

When I think of my grandma, I think of flowers. I think of a well-set table, and an outfit so well-matched even the shoes were part of it. On the other hand, I think of someone so comfortable in her own skin that on 100 degree summer barbecue days, showing up for dinner in a swimming suit and cut-offs wasn't unheard of. Everything planned. Everything purposeful. When I think of my grandma, I think of someone who took care, who paid attention to details, and who noticed every single person in the room.

My grandma showed me what it means to be engaged in a conversation. There was no evading her questions. If you didn't give her an interesting answer, she'd re-phrase. I think she enjoyed my brother and me more the older we got - eventually equals in the ebb and flow of sharing ideas, asking questions, and dissecting controversies. A discussion over a glass of rosé on the patio is the quintessential summer patio experience with our Silkensen clan, and if my brother is the "odd one out" for not imbibing, one of the few people who hardly ever brought this up was my grandma. What difference does it make? I don't think anyone ever made it on our back patio without my grandma demanding, in such an earnestly eager way, to know them better.

My grandma inspired in me the value of creativity. She created her own name for Erik and me, spelling and all, and I've felt strange referring to her as "my grandma" because that is not who she was. She was not "Grannie," she was not "Grams," she was not anything anyone else had ever been called before. She was Granejo. I remember going over for an Easter dinner, must have been, and Erik and I were quite young. The table was set, of course, with name tags and a little more for my brother and me. The way I remember it is a series of riddles that led us to metal canisters shaped like rabbits and filled with candies...riddles in her elegant, cursive scrawl. Kid memories are not so reliable, I guess, and there are spaces I must fill in with guesswork. Perhaps it was Valentine's Day, her favorite holiday, and the canisters were hearts. What makes me happiest right now is picturing her setting this up and executing it so perfectly: a wry grin, pleased with her clever rhymes and hiding places, and the wonderful satisfaction she must have felt with our glee at discovering her treasure.

Granejo also taught me that it is ok, that it is normal and perfectly acceptable, to be sad sometimes. She did not pretend with her feelings. If a silver lining was there to spot, she certainly would, but we shared an appreciation for the cathartic release of a good cry and an indulgent bout of negativity. I think I found a husband who can handle this part of me. We all know Granejo hit the jackpot with my grandpa (did I mention he is Grandpop? I've never asked, now that I think of it, but must she have come up with that, too?). They are the exemplar for "life partners." They have modeled a love that is full of care and understanding, teasing and forgiveness, adventure and the sweetest feel of home.

Here are some things I love - that I think are because of her, and that I know she loved, too:

• Valentine's Day
• Radishes sliced thin with natural peanut butter and coarse salt
• Writing poems
• Rosé
• Somebody else offering to re-fill my rosé
• Dining out a little too extravagantly
• Singing (not terribly well, but loudly, and joyfully, and regardless of whether anyone else around wants to hear it)
• An extended hors d'oeuvres session before dinner
• Baking something delicious
• Being told by others that what I baked was delicious 
• Planning ahead with extraneous detail
• Road trips with my husband to new places
• Road trips with my husband to places we already know that we love
• Mother-Daughter time
• Sharing my opinion
• Listening to others' opinions 
• Prioritizing my physical and mental health...exercising and eating well
• Not making phone conversations last longer than necessary 
• A little treat, something sweet - every single day. 

Memories keep confronting me throughout the couple days that you've been gone. How you'd always greet Erik and me at the door with some fizzy concoction at dinner parties (you seemed to be the only adult who cared about us having something fun to drink, too). How when you liked the sound of the music, you'd do some snap of your fingers and pop of your hip that was so uniquely you - unrestrained, lighthearted, relishing the moment. I will always remember you that way.

I was not prepared for you to go, Granejo. I know we never would have been. This world is going to be a lot quieter without you, and not in the way that I like. I'm really looking forward to our next conversation... Love you, forever.