we drove through long windy roads, passing horses, cows, and sometimes the Amish. I would trace the raindrops coursing down the car window as my mom played Fleetwood Mac almost religiously. Katie and I battled in Mario brothers, our fingers twiddling our blue and red DS’. When we arrived at the quaint, white country house, I raced out of the car to greet my best friend Reagan. He was a chocolate lab. I cuddled him in my arms, all 120 pounds of him, as if he were my own. Grandpa stood taller then, before time weighed his shoulders down. He kissed me on the cheek, always smiling ear to ear. As my mom and dad unloaded the car, I would sneak away to my favorite room of the home: my grandparents. Grandma Mimi had passed shortly after my birth, and I found myself I connecting to her through miscellaneous material things. Her collection of unique stuffed bears, for example. I set them up in the dining room, acting as a waiter during tea time. My very own stuffed bear shares Grandma’s name, Mimi. And is now tatted on my arm.
To the adults dismay, Katie and I “rode” the stairs. We sat at the top, our arms stretching forward as we laid on our stomachs. We pushed each other from the top stair, barreling down the light green carpet. The rugburn was brutal, but the laughing was endless. We frolicked along the green empty spaces on grandpas country road with our cousins in tow. One time, during Katie’s rip stick phase, she fell and scraped herself up. I hopped off my scooter to help her, proud to fulfill the big sister role for once, treating her wounds and helping her get back to the house.
Christmas was the best in Ligonier. My mom’s side of the family is big, so Christmas Day consisted of wasted wrapping paper, too many cooks in the kitchen, the cousins watching a movie too inappropriate for me at that age, yet letting me watch anyway. I acted as if it didn’t scar me, but it totally did. I sat on Grandpa’s lap while opening gifts and I can still see his big blue eyes widening in joy. He was wise; always dispensing advice to us. While my 8 year old self couldn’t appreciate it, I do now. I wonder if he was always that sentimental and open. Then I hear stories of my mother’s adolescence where he scolded her for sneaking out and scared her boyfriends away. She knows so many versions of him, but I only know this one. Maybe one day my dad will gush about his childhood stories and tear up giving me life advice. Maybe one day his rough edges will soften to the touch like Grandpa’s.
There’s so many things to say when facing loss. I do not have the words, but I have the memories. And I loathe the thought of ever forgetting them. Each year that goes by I feel my childhood being chipped away by an inexplicable force. Mourning is one size fits all; for I mourn the leaves that hit the ground as autumn descents into winter. And the two little girls who stood atop my father’s old red Jeep covered in snow, that we only recall from photos rather than memory. Then there is the intensity of actual death. When I was seven, I lost my front tooth. My smile looked uncomfortable, my gums exposed and vulnerable. One day it was there, the next it was ripped straight out of my mouth. Eventually, a new tooth grew in little by little. Although it didn’t fit in with the rest of my little teeth, it was stronger, more resilient. I thought maybe my new tooth would grow back looking the same as my old one, but we aren’t the same when something is physically removed from our lives. We revitalize, but we are forever changed. Death is like that, I’ve learned. Not as simple as a missing tooth, but the sentiment remains similar. I do not have grandparents anymore, and maybe there will be days in the future that I forget about that. But somehow, someway, I will always be reminded. Maybe because of my Mimi tattoo, or Grams’ painting in my room. Maybe from Grandpa’s furniture that lives in our lakehouse, or dad’s leather jacket once belonging to Grandpa Bob. Even more so, maybe from the memories that don’t fade away.
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