She faked a heart attack so that I’d have a Cabbage Patch Doll. She sat in the front row for every one of my musical performances and cheered at my abysmal athletic endeavors. She hit redial for hours trying to win Michael Jackson concert tickets. She stocked the pantry with my favorite snacks and had special sheets on my bed at her house just in case I wanted to stay. She waited in line for hours so that I could meet Richard Simmons in 1995. She was the first person I told I was pregnant, but it was our last conversation. She died later that day.
My Nani’s death wasn’t sudden. Just shy of 97, she lived a long and happy life. She was the best friend I ever had, and the grief I felt after her death was palpable. I felt lost and confused and the slightest bit angry. It didn’t feel fair. I wanted so badly for her to meet my baby, but I felt some solace in the fact that she was at my wedding the year before. I have the most beautiful picture of her looking up at me and smiling with the brand of love and pride only she possessed.
I thought of her daily for the next several months and missed her incredibly. Even though I always knew her age and that no one lived forever, I never could quite wrap my head around the fact that she was gone. I could still hear her voice and see her icy blue eyes. I would close my eyes and feel her hands and the soft tufts of white hair on her head. How could someone who felt so close be so far away?
When my son was born the following spring, I was elated. He brought a joy into my life that had been missing since my Nani’s death, and I suddenly felt a bit of peace. He was my own mother’s first grandchild, and although she was also deeply missing her mother, that baby boy filled a gaping hole in her heart. He was my miracle, and my mother always said he was protected by my Nani, his guardian angel in Heaven. I wholeheartedly believed her.
Shortly after his birth, my mother and I prepared for his baptism. I come from a long line of Irish Catholics, and a baby’s baptism is the penultimate celebration. The day is all about God, family, and tradition, and this first grandchild’s special day would be one for the memory books.
The night before the christening, we washed china and crystal, polished silver, and dusted surfaces in my home that had never seen a Swiffer. My Nani’s furniture was always pristine and covered in plastic; I certainly wanted to make her proud on what would have been her favorite day of the year.
My mother brought over a christening outfit the following day that had been worn by my three brothers and purchased by my Nani 27 years earlier at Famous-Barr. This garment was now a family heirloom. I was proud to have my son wear it. The outfit was simple and white and the perfect touch for his big day. She also had a small box in her hand for me to open. It was a silver cup, the kind a baby receives on their first birthday. It was a gift from my Nani, tarnished from years of sitting in a cabinet, but my mother wanted me to have it.
The engraving suddenly appeared as she polished the cup, and my heart stopped. My mother caught my glance and looked down as tears suddenly streamed down her cheek. We very clearly saw my name and the date: April 22, 1979. It wasn’t my birthday, but a day that was even more significant to my Nani.
She gifted that cup to commemorate my baptism into the Catholic Church 29 years to the day before I gave birth to my son on April 22, 2008. Although she was gone, she never left my side and wanted me to know it. The power of my Nani’s love transcended Heaven, and I received her message loud and clear that day.
by Tynea Lewis 
by Elizabeth Dardes 
