The Purple Sky

I remember how your flowers smelled on the day you passed away. The purple daffodils next to your bed, and the lavender scent lingering about the room. You laid on your back in bed, the windows open, and sunlight beaming on your face. A gentle breeze blew the curtains, matching the rhythm of your breath. You breathed slowly, as I sat on the edge of the bed. I checked my watch; 4:02pm. You had not opened your eyes since yesterday, as if they were already at rest for you. I watched your chest intently, your hands gracefully placed across each other as you breathed gently and calmly. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed loudly, reminding me of the sounds that settled a comforting nostalgia into my brain for the last 20 years. A grandfather clock that always chimed at 4:05pm, for no reason in particular, just to remind everyone in the house that it was there. 

I placed my book down on your bedside table, and transcended the wooden stairs to the kitchen. I prepared myself some tea, and a cup for you, if you decided to open your eyes today. Deep down, my anxiety mixed with the calmness of calamity. I knew that you were gone already. I shed silent tears as the microwave circled my mug around, and around and around. Scalding water spilling on my hand, I carry both mugs back to the room. Expecting to see your tender tranquility as it was 5 minutes ago. I set the tea down beside your bed, and place a gentle hand on your forehead. I notice your eyes flick open, and we pass a smile to each other. Your gentle, frail hand reaches to my cheek to wipe away a tear I didn’t know had begun to fall.

“You will be okay.” He said softly.

“Do you want to drink some tea with me, grandpa?” I asked, sipping the heat from my cup.

“Yes, I’ll have a sip. Chamomile?” 

“Yes, of course, the only tea you ever liked.” I giggled.

He raised his head and I propped up his pillow. The pillow with the light blue stripes, the faded ocean scenery, the prettiest pillowcase we had ever had. So many washes had faded it by now, but the nostalgia in me flowed stronger. I remembered the sleepovers with this pillowcase. When one of my friends chose to sleep on this pillow while she slept over. How we laid awake listening to the rain, and ate my grandma’s cinnamon French toast in the morning before her mother came. What a great friend, Diane. How I missed her. How we laughed and played. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

My grandpa’s voice startled me from my nostalgic memory. I sighed.

“Your pillowcase is the same one Diane slept on when she stayed over here, when I was a child.”

“Ah yes, Diane, I hope she’s enjoying the beaches of Rhode Island.”

“So do I.” I said, remembering the day she moved away. 

My grandpa sipped his tea, and handed me the cup with shaking hands. 

“I had a good life, dear.” He said, as he laid his head down.

“I was proud of you everyday. Your grandma was too. You made us the happiest grandparents in the world.” 

I began to cry, and grabbed his hand. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you as well.” He said squeezing me tight. 

His eyes closed soon after, and he returned to his quiet breathing state. I replaced his hands on his chest, and allowed myself to cry silently.

Around 6pm, as the sunset had darkened on the horizon, the wind had come to a silent standstill. Your breath quieted and eventually slowed with the wind. In Danish traditions, it is common to open a window once someone passes away, or even during their final hours of life. It is believed their soul travels easier and rests quicker. I remember that day, the night, and you. Our memories, and how the tea tasted a bit sweeter that afternoon.

That evening, I allowed you to remain in your bed, resting peacefully. I wondered what I would do next, where I would go, and what would happen to this old home beneath me. Every wide set window in the house inviting that beautiful vision of the crashing ocean waves in the distance, and illuminating the moonlight above. I sat for several hours after your passing, it seemed, contemplating, asking God for guidance, for peace. The old television in front of me played Wheel of Fortune, muted. As I stared blankly into the screen, watching the contestants spin the wheel over and over again, I realized that this home was the one place of my refuge. The spinning wheel told me that by selling this house, selling my memories away, would only spiral me into a deeper loss. Moving to America with my grandparents when I was a child had brought me to this moment, and now I had the chance to carry on the legacy.

I paced around the kitchen, enveloping the silence around me. Staring at the blue painted cabinets, the white counters, and the bright lights my grandpa had installed underneath the cabinets on the wall. Each small corner of my grandparent's home pulling me back into small memories I had forgotten about. The rainy days paired with the smell of my grandma's almond croissants baking in the oven, my American cousins coming to visit for a week in summer, where we enjoyed the hot sun and very cold iced tea. I remember how my grandmother complained about the heat and took such long naps in those months. Everything that seemed so difficult back then, I longed to experience again.

I remember every nostalgic memory in every nook and cranny of this beautiful beachside home. Sometimes I remember the excitement and terror which resided in me as we left Denmark for good when I was five years old. Flying over the ocean for miles, trying to catch any sight of dolphins or killer whales swimming below. My grandma's perfume welded into the memory, as she would lean across me to look out our plane window.

I lit a candle and ascended back up the stairs to look at you one more time, reminding myself that you were at peace. I washed your cup of tea down the drain, the final cup. With grief comes memory, and with memory comes resilience. Each time I remember you and my grandmother now, I find myself smiling. As I look at my own children, my husband, and my life, which found itself swept away by the beauty of the ocean. I realize that you brought me to the peak of existence. And for that, I remember everything, and I will always remember you.