Nan

The school bus always dropped me off at the corner of my nanny’s house.

Bus 535.

It was always sticky, and my light-up sneakers always stuck to the aisle. My best friend was on that bus. We got off at the same bus stop; she lived down the street.

Nanny would always be waiting at the house, ready to fill my stomach with chocolate pudding or cinnamon-sugar toast.

My little brother was already there, not yet school age. My older sisters would be there too, having come home an hour earlier from high school.

We’d play outside on the swingset. To a six-year-old, nanny’s backyard looked like Disney World. A playground with a slide connected, with swings that when swung too high, the poles would come out of the ground. Your bottom would fly a few inches off of your seat, but you just held on tight and swung even higher. We had bikes, scooters, and all of the popsicles we could ever imagine.

Nanny loved to play card games with us. War and Go-Fish were two of our favorites. I don’t remember who won, but I know that every game was filled with laughter and hot tea.

Dinner was always something that we liked. Hot dogs with mac and cheese, chicken fingers, or our favorite potato soup. Sometimes, mom would even drop by with Burger King.

Nanny had well water, which means that showers and baths were never long. If we took long showers, she would run out of water. To me, this was a godsend. I never liked taking showers or baths and I hated getting my hair washed and always put up a fight.

Most times, I would sleep with nanny in her bed. We would fall asleep watching her favorite shows under her sheets that smelled like sweet honey lotion. Sometimes I would sleep on the couch in the living room. Without fail, requesting the cream-colored sheet with a mini strawberry print. That was my sheet, and when nanny couldn’t find it, I’d throw a fit until she found it.

I’d get up for school the next day and we'd do it all again. It was a routine, and almost every day was the same but it was never boring.

Easter, birthdays, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. All of them were celebrated at nanny’s. Her rancher house would be packed full of people. Cousins that I'd only see once a year, aunts and uncles who would sneak me five dollars, big sisters who brought my nieces and nephews. The spread of food nanny would make could probably have fed a small village. Everybody always left with a plate of leftovers for the next day. But dessert was the best part. At Christmas, nanny would make homemade root beer. The bottles would line the floor right behind the table. Ten, maybe fifteen bottles of root beer sat patiently waiting for Christmas day to arrive. She also made homemade sugar cookies with frosting. Each cookie was a little different. Some were shaped like Christmas trees, bells, or angels. For Easter, they were egg or bunny-shaped. They'd be topped with colorful icing and an array of sprinkles. No matter what shape though, I could always put away four or five at a time.

Nanny definitely didn’t let her grandkids be skinny, she knew how to feed us.

At Halloween, all of the kids in the family would go trick-or-treating in nanny’s neighborhood. Nanny would make her famous potato soup and everybody would bring hot dogs. The kids would all sit on the living room floor in their costumes and trade pieces of candy after a big bowl of soup.

As I got older, family parties and holidays started to get smaller. Someone was mad at someone else, someone passed away, someone had to work, grandkids got older and didn’t want to go anymore. But I was always there. And I was always the last one to leave.

I don’t believe in psychics, but if I did, I’d think I was one. At summer camp, you’re not allowed to have your cell phone. It’s just a week where you disconnect from the world. I was eighteen and it was my last year of camp. Normally, I would have had fun that week, but I knew something was wrong back home.

“Nanny has cancer.” mom told me.

I had been home for a day.

I don’t remember what I said that day. I just remember mom telling me that it was going to be okay. That she was going to get surgery and be okay.

Nanny had surgery. Went to rehab. Had surgery. Went to rehab. It was a vicious cycle.

I went to college. Called nanny every week. I always told her that things were going to be okay.

Nanny had a good spirit, but inside, she was terrified.

I was too. I just couldn’t show her that.

Nanny got worse every time I saw her. Every time I’d come home from college, she had declined.

At first, she wasn’t able to walk as fast. Then, she wasn’t able to walk without the walker. Soon after, she couldn’t walk at all, and it was a milestone every time she took a few steps.

Slowly, our calls got simpler.

“What did you have for dinner?” I’d ask.

“I get to come home in two months.”

“I’m praying for you nanny.”

“I’ll see you soon nanny.”

“I love you, nanny.”

Our calls never lasted too long, she had a hard time hearing and comprehending.

Within four months, two of nanny’s sons died.

A year later, she was bedridden. This wasn’t the same woman who would get down on her hands and knees to scrub her kitchen floor, or who would hold two babies on her hips at one time, or who would spend hours in the kitchen cooking and baking.

It only took two years for the cancer to spread to her entire body, and on top of that, she had a broken heart.

The last I saw nanny, I kissed her head, gave her deteriorating body a big gentle hug, and told her,

“See you soon. I love you.”

Not even a week later, she was gone.

My mom got a phone call, my sister was on the line.

“She’s not going to be here much longer,” she said.

I said my final goodbye on the phone that day. I know she could hear me, she just couldn’t respond.

So on the other side of the country, opening day of Junior year, I held my broken mom in my arms.

Her sobs were heard throughout the entire campus.

Every memory of my nanny flooded through my mind.

Learning how to ride my bike in her backyard, the ten-dollar birthday checks every single year, watching Christmas movies, sitting outside the bathroom as she got ready for bed because I was afraid to be alone, the big family Easter egg hunt every year, how she would call every squirrel she saw, Frankie. Every memory became so foggy, but her kindness remained crystal clear.

Some people in this world are kind because they have to be. Nanny was kind because that’s who she was. Her kindness was like warm sunlight coming through the window, it was like snow on Christmas day, it was that salty sea breeze on the beach, it was like the cinnamon sugar I put on my buttered toast as an afternoon snack.

It was warm, full, sweet, and you could feel it.

No matter who you were, where you were from, what you had done. Her kindness reached everyone.

I’ve read that the brain can hold up to 2.5 million gigabytes of memory.

I’d like to believe nanny takes up a lot of that space.