I can't say I am always sad when I remember her. First off, she would have tell me to hush my mouf (yes the typo is intended), before she give me somefing to cry about. Or even, more likely, she would have just given me that "eye" (and all the Caribbean descendants sayeth...AMEN!). She was not one of those 'lovey dovey, aww sugar-plum, how can I spoil you extensively, and send you back to your mother' kinda grandmas. My Granny would more likely buss my tail than my own Mother....and trust me, that is saying alot, considering how good an aim my Mother is (or rather, used to be) with an inanimate object (my Mummy is a softee of a Grandma for sure, as evidenced by the upteenth jars of candy available freely to visiting grandchildren - even tho I had to beg and plead like it was a matter of life and death to get a half lick of a lollipop...huff, huff huff...grrrrr).
That said, I don't recall a day that Granny ever beat me (read "spank" for all you non-Caribbeans and uptight politically correct nuts). I feared her too much to provoke that. One of the reasons I cannot stomach soggy cereal and lukewarm food is because, as punishment for being a picky eater and letting my cornflakes turn into mush, she put me to sit in front of my unwanted breakfast for a couple hours, until I ate the nasty mess. That was as close to a beating I ever wanted to get. Needless to say, I stopped being picky and learned to eat fast, so as not to encounter slushy cereal and tepid food ever again in my life! Now, on the odd occasion when life with a big family delays me getting to my breakfast bowl, I gotta confess, I have to dump the pasty stuff. But I tell ya, going to that trashcan is almost like slipping stealthily into the Catholic confession box, hoping the Priest (read 'Granny') does not see who he is talking to, coz I'm about to confess some truly deep and profound secret that might get me ostracized from humanity (read 'waste food, when people dying in dee world, of starvation'). SMH. Just because Granny is no longer on earth does not mean I ain't feeling her looking at me, ya know. lol
AHHH! Feeling her looking at me...sigh...
Anyone who has lost a loved one and felt, or longed for, their presence afterwards knows what that means. Human bodies die. But something about one's Spirit remains with those who loved them (here.......take a kleenex). And I am not opening this up for any spiritual, nor hocus pocus nonsense debate. Neither do I subscribe to eastern philosophy on reincarnation and such (goodness knows life is tough the first time around. I sure ain't even trying to imagine coming back). I am just saying, sometimes I feel her, ya heard? Perhaps it is not her Spirit per se, but the memory of her Spirit. Either way...she is occasionally a warm whisper of air filling my lungs when life is overwhelming, or when I see her in my children, or smell her kitchen in my own cooking.
The memory of my Granny, is like a soft cool wind in a deeply equatorial desert. Refreshing, and as fleeting as the mirage that brought it's sensation. I long for her, perhaps more now, than when she first passed away. I watch my children grow, very conscious of the FACT that they, with the exception of my firstborn, have never, and will never know the strength of her arms, the sound of her low and firm voice, the love in her pots and plates (well, after they get used to eating the scotch bonnet peppers, that'll burn their tongue, throat, belly and backside lol lol...because she never rationed the pepper even when children were eating. (read "Eat or Starve").
This year was pretty intense and melancholy, as far as thinking of her goes. Perhaps it was that her last remaining sibling, my Dear Great-Aunt, and her almost twin-lookalike, passed away earlier this year. Perhaps recently painting my kitchen a golden yellow in honor of her sunny yellow kitchen, and one of my Mother's favorite colors, gold, has kept her even closer in my mind. Perhaps I am finally acknowledging, after well over a decade, that she really is gone, and my children will really never personally know the woman who created a legacy of faith in Christ, of pray-full covering of family, of stoic womanhood, which I have been, almost forcefully, assigned to since her passing.
My Granny suffered a series of strokes, the last of which left her exhausted with life. We feared for her, feeling the worse was to come. I visited her, stared at her eyes, and saw her wrestling to live. I observed, at her hospital bed, a strong woman, surrendering physically, yet, emotionally and spiritually holding fast. I knew before I came to see her that I would anoint her with oil and speak blessings of thanks to her. I was not a Christian. I had rejected Christ and the fallacy of the White Man's religion. I only knew, and had it confirmed to me by her eyes, that I was to be there, at that moment. What I did not realize, and learned later on, through Biblical study, was that I was anointing her for death, in the tradition of the Hebrews, and that she, like ancestors of old, would pass on her life's gain and inheritance, her faith and fight, her victories and prayers, laying them in my lap, as the one assigned and chosen to take up the baton.
I held back tears as I rubbed her arm with frankincense and myrrh, looking into her eyes and speaking what she communicated through them. I promised her I would be the one, now, to pray and cover our family. I promised her knowing the life of atheism I had chosen. I promised her knowing that I could not and would never worship at the feet of the untruthful image of a White Jesus. I promised to be the keeper of my family, because my tired and frail Granny would not leave this earth without knowing there was someone praying for her family, someone to take her place. Her faith in the power of prayer was that strong.
The next day, after my visit, my Granny rose, and sat up in her hospital bed, with the gait and gusto of a million armies readying for war. She was lucid, smiling, talking. On the third day, she died, at precisely the time I looked up at a clock and felt her presence. My rebellious atheism was shattered. I wondered at the wonderment that is God. I continued to refuse the lie of a White Jesus. Yet on packing away her estate, I opened my Granny's well-used Bible and began my journey towards keeping my promise to her. When I accepted the truth of Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, I was physically alone, but I could feel my Granny. And perhaps it is sacrilegious to say, but I may, at that point of my faith, have feared having disappointed her more than I was concerned over how I had failed to live up to God's Holy ordinances.
Anywhoo...I could go on and on, but this is not about her death, after-death, nor about her strict discipline of me....the FACT is, this blog is about her LIFE. About the everlasting LOVE that one truly beautiful woman instilled in me of myself, of my heritage, of family, of faith, of God. While she lived my Grandmother was the epitome of a bastion. Her absence has often felt like a spiritual vacuum in my family. It is one of the reasons, when I myself lack focus, and fall below par in my continued walk to follow Christ, that I am reminded of the promise I made to her to be her replacement. There is power in prayer. There is power in covering your family with the blood of Jesus, the Christ. There is power in a praying mother, a praying wife, a praying daughter...a praying Grandmother. I do not doubt that the storms of life that came my family's way while Granny was yet alive, were curtailed from full-damage effect by her relentless pleas and faithfulness to God. I know I still have big mock-at-sins to fill.
I have not had a perfect walk learning to follow Christ. I have too often failed God in personal areas of my emotional, physical and mental life, in my people interaction, in dealing with family, in just plain being a broken human trying to get it together. But I have not forgotten for one minute that right over God's shoulder, Granny is also giving me the 'eye'. And I still long to please her, like the little girl who revered her every word. It is her consistency and discipline, her steadfast love, her devotion to God that helped teach me who He is. It is that human relationship with my Granny that spoke into my life and caused me to have even more reverence for God's Word, and for pleasing Him.
For the many years since her death, I could never muster up the lyrical energy to write her an ode, till this year. Perhaps it was all part of the grief process. Perhaps by penning it here I accept she is gone, and I acknowledge that I have thus-far failed in my promise to be who she was to our family. This October, I celebrate her life, her love her legacy with my heart, and the sacredness of the unspoken words I shared, looking into her eyes:
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A Rock
immovable
weathered by howling winds, yet stoic
Majestic in command
Her voice still echoes in my Spirit
A Tree
rooted
buttressed to overflowing banks
Branches set to sky
Regal hands
her firm hands, set to waist...I still remember
A River
everflowing
Saturated in prayer and dedication
The eye of any storm
Proud in heart
She still inspires me to strength
A Sea
warm
cascading waves of love
little voiced
but spoken in pots and pots of seasoned food
spicy - oh! how my tongue still recalls
A Mountain
sculpted
His-story, Our-story,
etched in her cheekbones
My Kalinago Grand-Mother
a Woman of strength
her love, I still ache for
A Wind
light
as her Spirit,
reminds of the constancy of legacy;
the kind she commands of me
She was a Queen, my Queen, still...unforgotten
"Kalinago Queen" - © 2012 Kalinago Woryi
VIDEO/AUDIO of Poem "Kalinago Queen"
© 2012 Kalinago Woryi
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| "La Cuisine Jaune" |
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