Soon I will be nobody's granddaughter
It always felt easier for me to be a grandchild than a daughter
This is a meditation of ancestry, family and nostalgia as I’m in the grievous process of losing my last grandparent. The little realization of soon being nobody’s granddaughter is what makes my chest ache the most right now, and I’m writing to feel it as deeply as I can.
Thank you for being here <3
I haven’t been able to call a grandmother since 2015, and by the end of spring, I predict my grandfather’s landline too will be disconnected. In its place I have many years worth of voicemails collected in my inbox, patches of audio to later be sewn together in a thick, sentimental quilt.
It always felt easier for me to be a grandchild than a daughter; a prestigious award I didn’t have to earn. I didn’t need to be good, talented or smart because they were proud of me for simply being born, for providing a direction for their affection. My grandparents’ unconditional encouragement was antithetical to my own parent’s criticism, the refreshing sip of water underneath a high afternoon sun.
My grandmother happily crouched around my ankles to hem my jeans, holding bright colored pins between her teeth while I flinched at the thought of being pricked. She baked syrupy pineapple upside down cake in the summers and drove me to see Pixars in theaters, while my grandfather snuck me sticks of spearmint gum from his shirt pocket and gifted me Italian trinkets to wear around my neck.Â
Their home was my long weekend vacation, endless hours playing in the shade of a tall oak tree they’d planted, ordering chocolate milkshakes with Belgian waffles from our Sunday morning diner. On the last day, I would cry little kid tears until my eyebrows flushed pink, watching from the backseat my grandparents waving to me from the concave of their front door.
Even as my visits became more sporadic with teenagehood, they never let me feel guilty for growing up. They grew excited instead of resentful during my extended absences, a black tea brewing stronger the longer it sits on the stove, so sweet it makes makes my teeth sticky.
I’ve been grandmothering myself for many years, trying to recreate that feeling of safety she held for me, longing to feel the same comfort of hearing polkas playing over her car radio. I replicate the smell of her Italian kitchen with olive oil, garlic and onion; open the windows wide when I clean. I’ve made my own gnocchi from scratch, and take pride in hosting friends for coffee.
I’ll grandfather myself in other ways, like humming harmonies to twangy country songs and inhaling the smell of vanilla cigars smoldering somewhere in an amber ashtray. I’ll polish my silver and condition my leather, continue learning Italian. I hope to be as lucky to make new friends even in my eighties.Â
I’ll slowly become my own grandparents, carrying them with me like ancestry in a silver locket, living in reverence to the woman they’ve so graciously allowed me to become.
Love this.