Grandma

Her

I remember the day she waited all night for us to reach safely. She was standing right by the door at midnight, in her cotton nightdress, hands pressed together in silent prayer. When our car rolled through the main gate, her whole face transformed—that smile, the one that made tiny tears of joy roll down her cheeks.

Summer holidays meant the house with the garden, green grass beneath the yellow sun. It meant Grandma waking up at 5 AM and starting in the kitchen. Home-cooked pickles lined up in glass jars on the counter, each one tied with muslin cloth and rope. Brown sweets on a steel plate, waiting to be cut into small squares. Mango ice cream made in the steel vessel she'd churn by hand and serve with such love. "Eat more, eat as much as you want."

I loved the weight of her arms around me during afternoon naps, the smell of oil in her hair. Evening tea in her bedroom, listening to her stories about people I'd never met but felt I knew—childhood friends, distant relatives, neighbors from decades ago. She had a way of making every story interesting. The way she'd open that old trunk and take out treasures: clothes, antiques, forgotten things. The smell of fresh linen when she opened her cupboard. The way she'd fill up my slam book and encourage me to wear nice dresses. She was my safe space, the one person with whom I could be exactly the way I wanted.

I called her every week after I returned to the city. Sometimes twice a week. "Grandma, do you know what I did today?" I'd launch into stories about work, friends, small victories and frustrations. "What? Tell me everything," she'd say, and I could hear her getting comfortable, ready to listen for as long as I needed.

The Shift

I forget the exact moment things shifted.

Studying and working abroad. The move. The new life that swallowed all my time. The time difference made keeping up impossible. Then Covid hit, and I fell into isolation—deep into a shell I couldn't escape. I knew Grandpa wasn't doing well. I didn't call enough. I missed so many of their calls. Work became my refuge, my excuse. The calls became rare, transactional. Every few months, if that. "Hi, Grandma, how are you?" Always the same question. Shorter conversations—five minutes instead of thirty. I'd be distracted, my mind on a dozen other things while she spoke. The distance grew.

After Grandpa passed, I could sense Grandma feeling empty. Mom said she was okay, reading scriptures and praying more. I meant to visit her. I really did. But there was always something—too much work, too few holidays, flights that cost too much.

I remember planning the trip home. A few months away, I told myself. I'd stay at least a week, I promised. I would listen to all her stories again, the ones I'd heard a hundred times. I'd ask questions. I'd remember details.

I went back home, finally, after three years. But I took work with me even on vacation. Logistics didn't work out—her house was ten hours away by road, and I only had four days before I'd have to start working remotely. The timing wasn't right. Mom said, "Grandma understands, don't worry. She knows you're busy."

So I did a video call instead. Ten minutes on a random afternoon. Too fragile to hold the phone herself, so my uncle held it for her. She smiled at the screen while oiling her hair, that same smile, but smaller now. Tired. We talked about nothing important. The weather. My job. Whether I was eating enough. I told her I'd visit next time, for sure. She said, "Yes, please. Next time. Focus on your health. I miss you."

Her voice cracked just slightly on those last words.

I forget what her last words to me were. I've tried so hard to remember, played that call back in my mind a thousand times, but the ending is just static. Did we say goodbye? Did I say I loved her? I can't remember. The not-knowing is its own kind of torture.

Gone

It was a Saturday night, 11 PM. I was heading home with a friend from an event, buzzing with energy, wanting to tell Mom about it. I pulled out my phone. No answer. Strange. I called Dad. No answer.

My hands went cold.

When Dad called back, I knew before he spoke. The pause was too long. The silence too heavy.

"Grandma's gone."

Just like that. Two words that rewrote everything.

I remember going to the backseat. I remember howling, a sound I didn't know I could make—something animal and raw. My friend drove in silence, not knowing what to say. I remember thinking: one more visit. Just one more chance. Why didn't I go? Why didn't I make time? What was so important that I couldn't take that drive?

The guilt is hard to live with. Heavy like the anchor of a ship.

Going Back

These days she comes to me in my dreams.

I'm sitting across from her in the bedroom. I'm listening. Really listening. Sometimes I'm eating breakfast while she chops vegetables. Sometimes I'm putting perfume on her in front of the mirror, and she's telling a story while I'm at it. Sometimes I'm in her room, thinking of a dress for her to wear at the next party.

My dreams feel real.

Last night, I dreamed I walked into her kitchen at 5 AM. She was there, standing by the stove. When she saw me, she turned and smiled, looking genuinely shocked.

"Why are you up so early?" she said, her voice warm and a bit concerned.

"I just wanted to spend more time with you," I told her. The truth, finally spoken out loud.

She took my hands in hers—I could feel them, warm and soft and real.

When I woke, I was disoriented. I was sitting in bed, but her warmth was still lingering on my hands. In that moment, I couldn't tell what was dream and what was memory.

Acceptance

Today I have to go to a party. I’ve been sitting here for an hour, making lists of reasons not to go. Too tired. Too much work. The dress I wanted to wear doesn’t fit right. Then I hear her voice, quiet but certain: “You got this. I’ll come with you.”

I get up. Put on the dress. Take a photo of myself in the mirror and look at it, wondering if she would have liked it. Wondering if she knows, somehow, that I’m trying.

She’s not here. She won’t ever be here again, not in the way I want.

But I can keep her with me. For as long as I desire. That is what my memory is for.