BananaGrams

The bittersweet thing about memories is their eagerness to show up when we least expect it. A tiny poke to the first domino triggers all the rest; one poke to our senses triggers memories we could swear never existed before that moment, or were hidden in our deepest unconscious crooks. I forget I used to be terrified of going on my Grandfather’s Sea Ray, that I couldn’t understand that boats were made for nature’s waves. I forget that I used to curl up into my mother’s legs, a permanent frown upon my cheeks, hoping the monsters would go away. I forget that they always did go away, and one day my fears did too. 

It began and ended the same. Grams stood outside the door, sometimes with Grandpa, waving at us and welcoming us inside. When we left, tanner and bummed out, she stood in the same spot waving us goodbye. 

Long Island, New York. Not often what people associate with “oasis”. Besides the Hamptons, maybe, but growing up I was unaware of the world of opulence just across the island. We drove through New Jersey and New York City traffic and endless wine vineyards that played a funny trick on the eyes if you stared too long. Farm after farm, it did not take long for Mom to insist on buying fresh fruits and vegetables. Katie and I scattered out of the car to follow her, hoping she would also buy us salt water taffy. Dad stayed back, smoked a cigarette, tried to wash the scent off of his body with mint gum and hand sanitizer–but Mom always knew. 

Here and there, my parents would tell me I was just like Grams. They didn’t know how much I treasured that. She was a firecracker. She was hilarious. I remember her old black Volvo and how she left her coffee on top of the car, so it spilled everywhere as she drove Katie and I to the candy store. I remember her bickering with my mom sometimes about her cooking. The way she spoiled the five of us grandkids, we were the girls she never had. I wonder sometimes if I still remind my parents of her, I hope I do. 

Grams used to let me play dress up in her old clothes, they swallowed me as I walked around the house in her red heels and big 80s shoulder-padded blue blazer. I broke her glass figurines once. I was a kid with too much imagination– I played games by myself with anything I could bring to life. That resulted in one of her little glass women being beheaded by my clumsy hands dropping her onto the hardwood floor. Dad was pissed; he demanded I tell Grams myself as I sat there crying. I still remember her grace. I thought she’d yell at me, she was a woman who could get angry. But she only told me that it was okay. Later that same day, we played BananaGrams, her favorite because she was a word whiz, and she destroyed us all like usual. 

My grandfather was only in my life for the first four years. I cannot tell if I truly know his face or if photographs take care of that for me. He exists as a big, light green chair. The ones that only one person sits on. He is there, in their old place by the bay, reading the newspaper. He is the 18 inch sea ray, the color blue. Or at least that’s what I like to think. Grams is a vivid painting of reds and purples. She is a beige visor, a tall glass of orange juice, a bright aquamarine. She is fashion, cigarettes, banana grams, and random historical facts. But she is also January 14, 2022. My dad on the phone choking up the news, church stained-glass, long stares out the rainy window, and hymns spoken by the cousins. 

Summer was Southold’s prime. I used to sit on the plastic lawn chair and soak up the sun in my cheetah print tankini. Katie and I splashed around–probably to the annoyance of other elderly community members trying to enjoy the pool–doing flip competitions, handstand races and the color game. Grams waded peacefully, chunky sunglasses adorned on her head. Dad did cannonballs, splashing the three of us, while my mom sat on the ledge with her toes dipped in the water, unwilling to wet her hair due to her highlights. When Grandpa was ready with the boat, everyone scurried through the grassy backyard, dodging geese poop and reapplying sunscreen, while I tried to throw a tantrum to avoid the monsters of the sea. That never worked. We came back kissed by the sun in all of our vulnerable spots.

 “At least you don’t have the Flanagan cheap skin,” my Grams would joke. She loved to brag about her Italian heritage. My cousin Lara and I were the only two to avoid it; Katie, Melissa and Julie, along with my Grandpa and Uncle Jimmy and Dad, always came back red and in urgent need of aloe.

Later, Katie and I sit on the porch shucking corn as Grams cooks the fresh crabs Uncle Jimmy brought in from the crab traps earlier this afternoon. Dad plays the Stones on Grams speaker. Lara, Melissa and Julie set the table for eight. Mille Bornes and Banana Grams sat on the ottoman next to the table, waiting for us to get our hands on them. I do not know if every detail I recall is exactly accurate. But I do not have the means to interrogate that. 

Back then, there was not a grandfather clock ticking in my ears. There were the sweet sounds of tennis balls hitting the green court and Pictionary guesses thrown out left and right, my dog Ginger’s paws tapping across the wooden floor. A collection of what are now just sweet nothings. I haven’t been that little girl afraid of sea monsters for 13 years. It’s easy to forget where I came from. Then suddenly it’s 1:30am, I’m halfway across the world from home, and I find myself scrolling to the top of my camera roll to remind myself who I am. And it is always the pictures from Southold that ground me and uproot me simultaneously. It’s one of those double edged swords. The grandfather clock continues to tick inside my ear, and I remember all of which is gone and all of which is forgotten. 

I am twenty one and I miss it. I miss being naive. I miss the warmth of youthfulness. I am twenty one and I miss what I cannot remember, like my Grandpa's voice. I am twenty one and I miss the abrupt sound of my Grams’ sneeze. I am twenty one and I miss trying to get Ginger to be a lap dog. I am twenty one and I miss the Long Island breeze. 

The first Thanksgiving after Grams’ death was at my house in New Jersey. Uncle Jimmy came from Manhattan. Lara came from Connecticut with her baby and husband. Melissa came from San Francisco, and Julie with her boyfriend from Virginia. Grams’ art was scattered across the house, and we selected the ones we wanted to keep with permission from everyone. Her jewelry was laid across the ottoman in an unorganized fashion as us cousins sorted through it. The old notebooks that used to sit in the upstairs guest room of the Southhold house sat on our island table, staring up at us, inviting us to touch our brush strokes from 15 plus years ago. We laughed as we flipped through the pages. Being the youngest, mine were always most humorous. None of us got Grams talents but we try to keep it alive on the walls of our bedrooms. 

That is what memory is about, I suppose. We begin to forget, so we hold onto what we can to present us with a semblance of nostalgia. I recite these memories that are lost in time, unsure of their timeline or if I get everything right. I yearn to beat the fleetingness of time and memories, writing them down so I can always remember– even if the memory is slightly fabricated. 

Music tends to trigger my senses and bring me back to that. There is a song, “Change” by Big Thief, that always gets me. Would you live forever, never die, while everything around you passes? Would you smile forever, never cry, while everything you know passes? When I hear this song, or I smell the salt of the bay at the Jersey shore, or I see Grams’ painting of purple daffodils hanging in my bedroom, or an old picture of my frowning face on the SeaRay, I am seven again. I am seven again, watching my Grandma wave goodbye to me, unaware of the thousands of unwelcomed goodbyes to come.