Lola Mama

Today is my paternal grandmother's birthday. I only remember a few things about her. I like to think I have her hair, streaks of silver running through it. That I have her love of making things-- when she stayed with us, she made my sister and me many dresses. Yellow gingham and white seersucker with tomato-red rosebuds. She would sew at the dining room table, squinting with bifocals, Halls cough drops in her pocket. Also that I have her sense of smell, instead of kisses, she would heartily embrace us and proceed to sniff our necks and ears. Now, more than ever, do I get that. It is so knee-weakeningly vulnerable to whiff that earthy-potato-ey smell of the boys sweaty heads. Or even Calliope's Saltwater sandals after a day at the museum.

We called my Dad today and sang "The Water Is Wide." When I asked how he was doing, he said, "Umm, not great." I told him how we had planned to honor her today and I got a small laugh from him.

After dinner, I gave each of the kids a pile of their own folded laundry to put away. I had hidden a dollar bill and a package of Lik-m-Aid in their pockets. Lola would do this, my teenage brothers would find a ten-dollar bill neatly folded and tucked into the back pocket of their freshly-laundered jeans. It was such a delight to the household at that time, which was filled with adolescent tension. What better way to humble a surly teenager than to give him ten bucks? My kids were more psyched about the Lik-m-aid. But then we went into the backyard where we set off sparklers. I liked being outside and thinking about her. Once, she swept our entire circular driveway with a short, wispy broom, quietly humming "Were You There?" Or she would walk that same driveway in a sort of calisthenic way. Stereo-typical Asian elder, walking the grounds, hands folded behind the back. I can clearly remember her this way, walking leading with her heart.