We all remember her differently. I remember how much she cared for me and how much she loved me. I remember her being so excited about me being her first grandchild that she talked babytalk to me for far longer than was appropriate. I remember her putting eyedrops in my pinkeye when I was 3 1/2 and Mom was in the hospital having Alison. I remember the photos of me all over her house - that one with the geranium is still my favorite. I remember going to her neighborhood pool. I remember the intercom in her "blue" house. I remember her letting me ride her German Shepherd, Tina. I remember, after they moved to Florida, her dragging me around to show me off to her friends when they came Home to visit. I remember she always had Orange Juice for me in the fridge and homemade whole wheat bread. When I grew up and decided I liked to cook, she hand wrote out the recipe for her wheat bread for me. Twice. One version for the bread machine and one version for the oven.
Dad has different memories. He has memories of her that we will never know. Like why he called her "Maude" and what she did to create his intense hatred of Chicken Pot Pie. There's an old, black and white photo in my basement, of Grandma crouching behind a 2-year-old George in an Army uniform. Dad's the only one who knew that woman.
Mom's early memories of Grandma were of a tasteful, put-together woman. She says she was always fashionable and fun to be around and always going out. She says that her house was perfect and that she was an amazing seamstress. Mom says she could make or tailor anything.
Alison has the least memories of her than all of us. Grandma & Grandpa moved to Florida when she was still a toddler so most of her memories come from Spring Breaks, where Disney or one coast or another was the main attraction. She told me recently that a few years ago she had been talking to our Aunt Jacque (our mom's sister) about Grandma and how she has so few memories of her. She told me that Aunt Jacque shared with her how in awe of Grandma she was as a young woman. Her clothes and hair, how poised and gracious she was and fun she was to be around. For my sister, this was a gift. A chance to know the Myretta that left an impression on a room. A Myretta that could put an outfit together like no one else. A Myretta that was a lot like her.
Life is long, and people do and say things that they regret. But in every life lost, there are good memories that remain behind to comfort those who can Remember. I called her last night, when she was in the last stages of cancer. She was in the third day of a coma. I asked Uncle to hold the phone up to her ear so I could talk to her. I told her that I loved her and that I was sorry I hadn't been to see her for so long. I told her that I hoped she wasn't hurting. I told her that we had had fun when I was little and that I remembered it. I told her, "I remember the good times, Grandma."
She died at midnight last night and is finally, finally, at Peace. And so should we be.
