Ealain

The three months before my Grampa died, I kept a diary. I started it at the beginning of the year and wrote most days. When he died, so did that journal. I didn’t know that it would have such importance to me later on: a recounting of who I was at that time and a collection of memories from that time. But now I know the importance of writing down things that happen to you that have an impact on your life. In the last post, the words wouldn’t come. Now that it has been a few days and the shock has warn off, I’m making myself sit down and record my thoughts. If not for any other reason than to remember her.

Her name was Karen but I always knew her as Oma which is German for “grandma”. She was my dad’s best friend’s mom and the grandmother of the two boys I babysit. She was born in Germany during the last few years of WW2, so that would have made her about 65 though I’m not sure on the exact age.

All these years later, she still had her accent. She was always exuberant and smiling. My dad calls her a “charming woman” and said that even when he went to visit her in the hospital this last time that she said that when she got home, he would have to come over and she’d make him a cake. That if you came to visit her, she made you eat. She used to tell me that she was going to teach me German and that she would take me to Germany and we would travel all over, that she’d show me everything. She would love you the second she met you; you were automatically family.

She died on Monday because she had bone cancer.

I didn’t see her much while she was sick; I saw her on her last birthday because her son was taking her out and I babysat the kids. Even then, she was full of life. It’s hard to imagine her gone because she was always so energetic; how could that, all of a sudden, disappear?

I thought back to the two kids I babysit. Now they are 10 and 11. And I thought back to when I lost my dad’s parents. I had been between five and seven when those died. I remember missing them. I remember making a memorial on poster board for my dad’s dad. But I don’t really remember how I felt.

My dad told me something that I didn’t know: that they aren’t religious and so, the boys haven’t been taught about Heaven. He said it would be even harder to explain to them because the obvious question of a kid is “where are they now?” If there is no Heaven, what do you say? You could tell the truth and say that you don’t know but then there wouldn’t be that comfort. I guess I was lucky back then because I was raised that Heaven is there.

In the state that I live in, we have standardized tests that kids have to take throughout their school years to make sure that they are up to the right level. We call it the FCAT. There are many problems with it–which I won’t go into here–but just know that if they don’t pass it, they don’t get to go to the next grade level. The two boys haven’t even been told yet that Oma died because they have FCAT this week and their parents don’t want them to be distracted. My dad said that he agrees and that he doesn’t even think they should be taken to the memorial, that I wasn’t taken to the ones when I was younger.

Makes you wonder if he thinks that they aren’t old enough to need that yet. I may not remember the funeral/memorials from when I was 5-7 but I remember my Grandpa’s from when I was 12; it hurt, but it was also comforting. They’re only a year or two younger than that. Just because you’re younger doesnt’ mean you are immune from sorrow.

There is an older man (probably in his 70s or 80s) that used to come to my work every Saturday to get his newspapers. He has a disability and it is very hard for him to walk so he would call in in the mornings to request us to hold the papers and then later in the day, when he could get someone to drive him there, he would come pick them up. This became a ritual and I began holding the papers at the beginning of the day without his call so that nobody else would grab the paper beforehand (sometimes they would). He would call and ask for me because he knew that I held them.

“Skye, sweetie, how’re you?” I always recognized his voice and a smile would come to my face when he called. He would flirt with me some and say that if he were my age, he’d love to get to know me more because I seemed interesting, nice, and sweet. I would joke with Josh that he had competition.

Mr. D went on vacation around Christmas and he called me, saying not to hold the papers until he called again. He said he should be back by the end of January latest. I still haven’t heard from him. I asked around at work and nobody else has either. Maybe I care too much, but I’m getting worried. I know that it is a business relationship but I naturally have everything personal for customer service. Whether it is wrong or not, I care. It makes me sad to think that someone I care about could be in the hospital or hurt or dead but I’d never know because I’m just a random girl at the bookstore that helped them. I’d never know.