Yoga Opens You Up

I have been missing my grandmother so, so much. I look at her photo and I can feel her hand, the soft, wrinkled skin, the ridges of her thin fingernails, the hard circles of rings. I can picture the blue dot between the bow of her upper lip, the one slight snaggle-tooth, the pouf of her permanent. I can hear her laughing, saying my name when I came over to visit. I remember the warm place in her arms, breathing in her pefume, her terry cloth housecoat against my face. She always smelled fresh, she always made you take a grocery bag, she always had ORT cookies. On her dresser, she had a little Victorian chair that was a pincushion. She liked to sit in the easy chair in her room by the window, where the light was good for tweezing the hairs from her chin. She had a drawer full of photos, some from the old country. My grandfather had a drawer full of monkey post cards and fat lady cards.

I don't think my grandmother ever felt guilty. Not for working at the bakery when her children were little, not for quitting over the summer to take them to the bungalow colony, not for going out with her friends or her husband, not for drinking to the point of hangover or for dumping boyfriends or saying no or demanding what she needed and wanted. She said yes to life at every stage. Did she have have that survivor's guilt that my other grandfather has? Certainly, she grieved the losses of her family, but did she feel guilty for leaving them behind? Is that what pushed her to send her other surviving sister money in Argentina? Is that what pushed her to help my grandfather's family out whenever they needed it? I think she was more or less a happy person, despite the obvious dissappointments that come with long marriage, fallable children, and disappointing friendships. I thinkshe was so grateful to survive, to have had the great good fortune to be in America, working hard, falling in love, and raising a family with enough food, solid education, and tight community, that she was able to avoid or get past that kind of guilt. I think it made her a happier person and so much better able to give to others. I wish I could have her strength, her sense of self, her strong moral center.

I remember one time on winter break in Florida we walked through a tropical rainstorm to see a movie at the clubhouse, which was the center of the enormous complex where they were renting their apartment for the winter. My grandmother wore her plastic rain bonnet and my umbrella blew inside out. I have no idea what we saw - I think something about fighting racism in the south. But I remember how much fun that walk with her was. I can still hear her pushing me on the swing in my backyard, ticking off her nicknames for me: Lady Jane, Amelia Earhart, Lady Godiva, Sara Bernhardt. I remember her putting a propeller leaf on her nose. I remember her holding me standing on her lap and showing me the paintings on the wall, Pretty Picture. I remember her letting me go upside down on her lap, and then pulling me back up, Upsy-daisy, downsy-daisy. I remember watching the Golden Girls with her and eating brownies. I remember weekends of crawling into bed with them when it was still too early to wake up my parents, but we were allowed to wake our grandparents. It was the end of the 70's and there were many nicknacks made of painted rocks or with cutesy sayings, and my brother and I loved to touch them and let our grandparents explain what they were, or what they said, and why this was meant to be funny. I remember all the sweaters she made for me and her delicious chicken soup. Nothing was better and nothing will ever be the same without her.