I'm grateful for having had a grandmother who instilled in me the importance and power of prayer, patience, and humility.She was the glue that held our family together, and now that she's gone, it feels as if we've all scattered to the four winds off Montauk Point, or have set sail via Galveston.
I don't like feeling disembodied in the aftermath of her passing. Many things were left unsaid and undone. I longed to bring her to New York to show her my immediate world, but knew she'd have been unable to walk as briskly as she did when I was a child.
The fantasy continued that I'd make a name for myself outside of Houston, and return to rebuild her house, and set her up as the matriarch she was and will always be in my heart. The parcel of land wouldn't accommodate a horse stable, swimming pool, and tennis court - that wasn't who she was - but I'd have at least designed her a gazebo in her backyard, just below the pecan tree, where we'd sit and reminiscence about her life.
Granny Gums and I always shared a special bond, and I know that will always be the case. Now that she's separated from her earthly vessel, she can watch over me from on high. I can hear the cadence of her voice, see her sitting on the corner of the living room sofa, nodding at the evening newscast at some local injustice, wrapped in her tri-color bathrobe.
I'm blessed for having known her, and saddened by her physical absence, but know that the most important lessons she taught will sustain me until we meet again.
Are we reflections of our family and friends, destined to grow in their image, and repeat their mistakes? How much control do we have over our lives until we're eighteen and off to college, the military, or a first job?
My family is large, and at times, controversial. There are so many of us, that we lose count among the symphony of voices, plotting, and machinations. We don't corner the market on Southern Gothic Drama, but come close.
I know I adopted certain behaviors I undoubtedly learned from my mother, while I others I consciously avoid because of my father. Who do I see when I look at my visage in the mirror? Do I see my granny's high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, or my mother's forehead and lips?
My youngest brother's newborn photo could easily be mistaken for mine, and vice versa. Different relatives in my family resemble each other, and recently I looked at online photos of my third cousin, daughter of my cousin stationed in Germany, and she's him in a tiny body. She has the exact expression on her face in various photos. Our faces form a family collage, a multi-hued mosaic ingrained with our legacy.
The passage of time is evident in my face when I'm shaving my face or brushing my teeth. I stretch my face to test its elasticity, and I'm comforted by the fact that Granny lived to be ninety years old, and if I take care of myself, I could live as long.
The downside to be so familiar is that my mother and siblings couldn't get easily get into mischief between of our trademark look, not that they would knowing that their father would chastise them. I think a similar happened with my generation, "Y'all look so much like. Which one are you?" Schoolteachers and neighbors alike would say. Such comments would only spur us to find ways to differentiate ourselves socially, academically, at church, or perhaps sassing a neighbor.
The upside to being a member of an easily recognizable clan was that our generation carried a mystique because of our numbers. We weren't hooligans, but you didn't want to mess with some of my cousins on the playground or in granny's back yard lot.
At the end of a day or the start of the day, there's a comfort in knowing that I belong to a band of loving, supportive, and temperamental misfits that I call family.
I'm grateful for having had a grandmother who instilled in me the importance and power of prayer, patience, and humility.She was the glue that held our family together, and now that she's gone, it feels as if we've all scattered to the four winds off Montauk Point, or have set sail via Galveston.
