Mug of Memories

This story discusses death and dementia.

Moments are vague, they can be anything. Like just now, when I tilted the kettle- too full and heavy for my single, mitt-laden wrist- and splashed boiling water on the inside of my thumb. The seconds it took for the red skin to begin to welt, for that very moment, was everything. That moment was not about whether I’d have a mark tomorrow, or about how I did the same thing last time and should have learned my lesson. That moment was only the heat searing into my skin, cooling as it dripped into my palm. It was the air that rushed through my teeth, and the tears that, annoyingly, welled in my eyes. If we measure moments by their content- only what occurs between the blurred boundaries of that unit of time- then every moment holds the same importance. In a moment, nothing much occurs. But in all of our moments, however many there are, everything occurs.

Like yesterday, when my mom called to tell me my dad’s mother had passed. Some would say that is a pretty significant moment. But all that moment included was heat searing into my ears, cooling as it reached my chest. It was air that rushed through my teeth, and tears that welled in my eyes. Altogether though, it melded into the story of a brief phone call with my mom, an alarming plane ride through a snowstorm, and a cup of English breakfast that I made for my dad to avoid sitting with him in silence.

When both mugs are full, I start back toward the family room to do just that. My dad thanks me for the mug, a book on his lap, open to the same page from before I left for the kitchen. For both of our sakes, I ignore this and let him pretend to read while I sip my tea. It’s so cold here, even the indoor heating hasn’t been able to penetrate the chill that planted itself under my skin when I stepped off the plane. As soon as the mug hits my lips, it feels like stepping into a hot bath my grandmother drew for me after coming in from a day of fresh snow. I see her standing well inside the house, away from the opening door, insisting that I remove all of my cold, damp outerwear and get into the bath before it runs cold. The hot water makes it hard to determine if my toes are burning or freezing off, but in the best way, and I know that when I get out, there will be hot chocolate and a slice of pound cake waiting for me.

I knew I was lucky to be so loved, to be able to visit my grandparents and be the complete center of attention. But it never occurred to me to wonder what it would be like when I was no longer surrounded by people who cared more about my complete health and comfort than even I did.

When it’s cooled enough, I’m able to take a full sip and feel the warm tea through my mouth and throat. She used to yell across the house, making sure her requests were fulfilled. I thought she was always complaining, thought she liked bossing everyone around. She probably did. But she really was always making sure everything was arranged for whatever guests were present, and that I was sufficiently taking care of myself.

“Did you drink your milk?”

“Did you wash your face?”

“Will you turn on Jeopardy!?”

During my last few visits, that house had become much quieter; only a hushed duet by my grandmother and her Frank Sinatra.

A few more sips, and the tea fills the empty spaces under my skin to my feet, like matted, floral slippers embracing toes still numb from the snow. No matter the weather, my grandma insisted that shoes be worn at all times in her house. No one was catching a cold on her watch. The one time I forgot to bring slippers to wear at night, she made sure I wore hers, singing, “put your shoes on, Lucy, don’t you know you’re in the city!” I didn’t know where the song came from or what it meant at all, but I kind of figured being “in the city” was not the same as inside the house. She thought it was really funny though. Every time.

Soon, the too-hot water was splashing into my chest, scalding my heart as I remembered my last visit. My grandmother’s eyes were bright, and she wore a smile more genuine than I’d ever seen on her. She pointed a pale, boney finger to each picture around the room, telling me about her handsome sons that she hoped I would soon meet, and I told her they sounded wonderful and intelligent. I know that they are. She told me about her “brand-new” husband who was so good to her, and I told her he sounded like a great man who loved her very much. I knew that he did. He had Eventually, her finger landed on a picture of me, no more than five years old.

“Do you know who that is?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. I hesitated before responding.

“Yes.”

“That’s me! Wasn’t I just so cute?”

I smiled and agreed. What a cute little girl.

Once again, heat seared into me and tears filled my eyes. All unimportant moments that will live within me throughout my life. All I have of this woman who prayed for me long before my birth are these stories. Each moment is an equally significant piece of a lifetime, melded together into one child’s relationship with unconditional love.

I hear sniffles next to me and notice wet eyes that usually only held tears from laughter.

“Are you alright?”

I wouldn’t even know what to say if my dad opened up to me. I’m sorry?

“Yeah, yeah. While you’re up, can you grab a few sugar cubes?”