Dear Lola Inday,
My memories of you consist of sporadic phone calls in the middle of the evening and papa’s tears when he heard the news you left us.
When we spoke I knew you were trying to send your love to a child you didn’t know. I tried not to be shy, but I never knew what to say. You didn’t know how I liked to play outside all day. You didn’t know that I smashed a guitar on my cousin sean’s head. You didn’t know that the dry summers made me suffer from nosebleeds. All you did know was that I was your only grandchild and I was a million miles away.
Papa told me that you got into a car accident that gave you back problems. You slept on the ground floor of our house back home. Papa still called it “our” house. Attempting to instill in me some sort of tie to you. You smile from the collage of family photos dad hangs in our hallway. Some days I would sit on the staircase and stare at you. I would imagine you taking care of me, watching me grow up, doting on all my silly quirks.
Like how I liked to wear a tissue cozy on my head and dance around to the music in my head. Like how I loved the smell of windex and dusting the glass on our family coffee table. Like how I would stare outside my window and have conversations with the birds tweeting away. Like how I would sit at the top of the three story metal rocket in our playground imagining I was an astronaut on my way to mars.
I never got to say good bye. But I never got to say hello. I try to recount our short conversations and hear through the awkward silences. I know your love was there. Transmitting over at&t’s phone lines. I can only hope you were able to hear mine.
Still loving & missing you,
your eldest grandchild
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