To my maternal grandmother, Rosemary Sowinski:
As I go for my evening walk in the 55° breeze with a ridiculously beautiful moon rising, this song shuffles through my iTunes and I think to myself, "I bet Grandma liked this song." I think of you more often than either of us probably imagined.
As grandchild #13 of 21, I had a slight case of middle (grand)child syndrome. I often felt lost in the shuffle of your raucous, joyful gaggle of grandchildren. Don't get me wrong; there was no place I'd rather be than with our big, fat, Catholic family. I cherish our Polish Circus more than anything in this world! But our personal, one-on-one relationship was late to bloom.
With dementia nipping at your toes in your final years, widowed and residing in an assisted living facility, your face would beam when I walked in the door to visit. After hugs and kisses hello, you'd ask covertly (though no one was listening), "You live by yourself, right?" I'd remind you confidently that yes, I've lived by myself for a few years now. You'd shake your head incredulously and ask, "How do you do it?" At first I thought you felt bad for me or that you didn't approve of a young woman living alone. But then I realized: it was your first time living alone... possibly ever. It was your way of connecting with me and drawing strength from me; two single sisters facing the world together, yet on our own.
In this moment tonight, with this song wafting along the cool breeze, tantalizing my senses, I'm taken back to your funeral. I recall the moment it was time to start processing from the church lobby to the altar. Our family, 35+ members strong, took a deep, collective and shaky breath. Spouses, significant others, and parents with small children grabbed each others' hands. We held our heads high as we walked together in the wake of our matriarch. I emerged in the crowd from the pillared lobby into the exposed sanctuary, and it hit me: I was one of the only people without a hand to hold. Indescribable loneliness ripped through the core of my being as I followed your glimmering, majestic, silver casket in a sea of my most beloved people on this planet. How could I be surrounded by so many people I loved, yet feel so profoundly alone?
As I looked around me, overwhelmed with the magnanimity of your life and our family, I was struck by a question that has haunted me since that day two years ago: How did you do it?
How did you become such a remarkable woman of faith? How did you become such an admirable mother, aunt, sister and friend? How did you impact so many people in so many small ways? How did you find such strength in the hardest of days? How did you walk into eternity with such confidence and glory? How, how, how? How did you do it?
Like our personal relationship, I feel I'm late to bloom on most of these fronts. Some days I feel close, yet other days I feel so far away.
I know the answers in my heart. Perhaps you're whispering them on the breath of angels. But oh, how I wish I could ask you in person. How I wish we could talk and pray over coffee, or a game of cards, or our family favorite, Bump. I wish your lips could speak it to my heart, preferably with a warm hug... and maybe even a waffle ice cream sandwich.
Until then, I will continue praying for love, charity and wisdom as I face each new day, calling upon my memory of you and what you would've done.
I love you and miss you, Grandma. I think of you so very often.
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