There was a time when my palate of ice cream flavors was as broad and as spontaneous as my Technicolor teenage wardrobe. I might delve into a thick, syrupy fudge scoop garnished with rainbow sprinkles after a choir performance; or I might enjoy a cone of tangy sherbet to cool off on a sultry afternoon spent waiting for the ferry. Anybody who has known me even moderately well at some point in my life knows that ice cream is, doubtlessly, my greatest weakness. And lord knows I couldn’t stick with just one flavor—no; I was about at slutty as you could get when it came to ice cream.
Yes, I was the annoying kid who dug out the chunks of cookie dough. I was the kid who sneered when Dad brought home Vanilla instead of Double Fudge Brownie. I was the college-age lurker in the kitchen stealing mounds of her boyfriend’s Half Baked—and I was furious when another roommate finished off my pint.
But a lot of this changed several months ago, while visiting at my Grandpa’s house.
About one year ago—to the day, almost—my Grandma passed away. She was at the tender old age of 87 when she heaved her last heavy sigh in a stark white hospital room warmed with familiar faces. I was delivering pizzas when it happened, but I had spent most of the previous day at the hospital. It’s a difficult sight… to see someone whom you’ve always known as cheerfully active to be paralyzed and withering—squeezing every last breath out while loving family members clutch desperately, preying each sigh is not her last.
What was even more difficult, though, was witnessing the pain and struggle my Grandpa was going through. He spent every single waking moment clutching his wife’s fragile hands and speaking to her softly, letting her know that he would always be there. My Grandpa had lived through the Great Depression, served in the Navy during WWII, and watched five children grow and blossom families of their own. But the depth of hurt and sorrow shown in his translucent blue eyes that afternoon could not be rivaled. Only the loss of his most beloved, his lover and best friend of over six decades, could spawn such grief.
Like a river, life has only one direction: forward. I went to college. Pieced together a new nest on new branches, met a new set of freshly sharpened friends, and swapped ideas in classrooms like we used to swap cards on sidewalks. By mid-winter break, the memories of my Grandma were far from forgotten, but tucked back behind more recent headlines and nineteen-year-old dramas.
I had seen my Grandpa several times since my Grandma’s passing, and every day still seemed to be a struggle for him. He was constantly reminded of his loneliness, as he walked about in his small rambler with only the ghosts and memories of his past. My Mom and I were visiting him on an early March afternoon, and my Grandpa’s heart seemed as heavy as ever. We made casual conversation for a while, and then my Mom excused herself to the kitchen. There was a stretch of silence as my Grandpa gazed off into space. As my mother rinsed dishes in the faint background, my Grandpa quietly confessed, “It’s a hard life…” I could see the same aching in his glossy, red-rimmed eyes that I saw back in August, back when he still had something physical to hold on to.
My mother broke the serene silence with a question, “Would anybody like some ice cream? Looks like we’ve got Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and Mint Chocolate Chip.”
“I’ll have some Mint Chocolate Chip,” I replied.
My Grandpa snapped his head toward me with unexpected glee, and exclaimed, “Mint Chocolate Chip? That was your Grandmother’s favorite!” His foggy eyes seemed to immediately brighten and his face, just moment before lined and sagging with grief, became animated, vivacious. All afternoon I had not seen him show even the slightest sign of happiness or excitement. He let out a good laugh, a laugh I had not heard for months, and reminisced, “She always had a great weakness for Mint Chocolate Chip…”
My Grandma was an extraordinary woman, a woman I grew to look up to. She had a voice like a songbird, both when she was speaking and when she was singing. When I was very young, she taught me ballet and tap dance. In my kindergarten talent show, we did a duet tap dance called The Old Soft Shoe, and when I was in first grade, I ventured off to do a solo piece—the Irish Jig—while she accompanied me on piano. For my performance, she sewed me an elaborate green and white dress with a shiny four-leaf clover on the front. I felt like a star.
My Grandma was an incredibly respectable woman. By the time she was my age, she was an accomplished and sought after dancer, taking part in glamorous productions in booming cities like Chicago. The thing I admire most about my Grandma, though, was in her attitude, not her accomplishments. She was always glowing with happiness and a smile brighter and more honest than the sun, welcoming everybody with open arms and an open heart. I don’t think that woman was even capable of producing a single negative thought.
Every time I enjoy a bowl of mint chocolate chip, it’s my small way of honoring my Grandma.
abhi Said:
on August 5, 2008 at 9:58 pm
i love it. you are awesome.