I will remember her.

I never met Phil’s grandmother Ireta.  And yet, every day I stand in my kitchen and cook for her grandson, using her cannisters, her salt and pepper shakers, and checking time on her skillet clock, that is hanging on my wall.

I use her dessert dishes to serve my girls ice cream and smoothies, and I wear her apron when we bake.

I think of her all the time, and the stories Phil tells me of her, while my fingers pull the lid from the sugar cannister that her fingers pulled, over 20 years ago.

Lately, I feel just the tiniest bit better.  And I don’t want to.  I wage a war daily with myself, afraid that if I close my eyes to feel the sun on my face, or if I laugh about something stupid, but funny, that somehow, it takes me away from Andra.  I am afraid that feeling better means I am forgetting to be be miserable, and that if I forget to be miserable, then I am forgetting Andra.  It is ridiculous of course, but nonetheless, I fear it.

It gave me comfort, tonight, to realize how often I think of and truly, deeply appreciate a woman I never met.  A woman who taught Phil to embroider, and to make country style eggs on holiday mornings. 

I won’t forget Andra.  And you won’t forget Andra.  And somewhere, there is someone who may not have even known her, who will learn of her, and hear her story and appreciate her.  Even if I am not miserable.  I’m not ready to give up being miserable yet, but maybe there is hope that someday I will be ready.  And on that day, maybe I will stop worrying about forgetting Andra long enough to remember her.

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