Love Letter to My Late Grandmother

I’m not sure exactly when our little ritual began or how it started but it would always go the same way. Always me, creeping into the kitchen at night under the cover of darkness. I would tiptoe my way along the cold tile floor as silent as a mouse. Carefully, I would reach into the wooden cupboards and retrieve her favorite teacup. A white porcelain cup with blue detailing. It was classic and beautiful just like she was. 

After gently placing the cup and matching saucer on the kitchen counter, I would then scurry over to get the tea bag out of the pantry. It was always an Earl Grey. Sophisticated and refined just like she was.  

Gently, I’d place the bag of Earl Grey inside the white and blue porcelain teacup and move onto the best part of the tradition: the love note. I’d grab whatever pen and sticky notepad was lying around nearest and write her something sweet written from the heart. In the note, I might’ve wished her a good morning, drawn her a picture, or told her that I’d loved her. 

Once I was satisfied with my writings, I’d place the note just beside her teacup, and I’d sneak my way out of the kitchen and back into bed for the night. In the mornings, when I greeted her for the day she would thank me for the sweet scribbles as she’d enjoy her Earl Grey out of her favorite white and blue porcelain teacup. 

When I look back and think of this routine now, there’s a soft tug at my heart. She has been gone for sometime and I have missed her dearly since. You never think about rituals, routines and traditions you have with someone until they are no longer with us. Moments that can seem so insignificant at the time are the ones that we tend to fixate on later.

The woman I’ve been referring to, of course, is my beautiful grandmother, Dana. She is, was and will always be the epitome of class, grace and elegance. There has never been and will never be again a truer version of the word: lady. I am truly lucky to have known her, and even more blessed to have been loved by her. 

To me however, she was never referred to as grandmother. No, she would not go by grandma, gam, meemaw, mimi, nanna or none the like. Those were much too pedestrian, much too senior. To me, she was always my Bijou. For the non-francophone, Bijou translates to jewel in french. A chosen nickname, fitting for the frequent Parisian traveler and exquisite lady.                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

From the moment my Bijou first laid eyes on me, she was smitten. A gurgling baby girl granddaughter, after raising only sons, was a welcome change for her, and from then on we were as thick as thieves. The entirety of my childhood consisted of just her and I playing together. The tea parties, “exploratory” walks , and days spent by the pool are some of the happiest memories of my life and I cherish them sincerely. 

My Bijou was many things. She was a talented pianist, a world traveler, an adept cook, and a snappy dresser. She always wore the finest silk scarves, large sunglasses and luxury handbags. Her homes featured meticulously curated pieces and gourmet goodies from the local artisan grocers. She knew how to live life to the very best and she’s always inspired me to do the very same. 

My Bijou also tended to have very terrible luck. For as wonderful a life as she had, the cosmos made sure that she suffered equally. She grew up under cruelty from her father and brother. She has stories of being followed by a shark while out swimming in the ocean, of being robbed at gunpoint while picking up her drycleaning, and of a giant pipe falling from the ceiling onto her foot while shopping at a department store. She suffered from breast cancer, skin cancer, arthritis and dementia, the latter of which ultimately led to her passing. 

When someone passes away there tends to be a fair amount of work to be done afterwards. They never really show you that in the movies. In the movies, they always pan out afterwards to a beautiful funeral adorned with flowers and melancholy mourners in black but they rarely show the planning and logistics required to get to that point. Or the work that comes after the funeral has ended. 

Phone calls to be made, trips to be gone on, packing to be done, arrangements to be carried out, certificates to be obtained, estates to be probated, wills to be acted on. The protocol surrounding one's passing is equally involved as it is depressing and you get to see every aspect of a person’s life. All their trinkets, their triumphs, their skeletons in the closet, nothing of theirs is hidden anymore. 

Despite my young age, I have now become somewhat acquainted with death and its practices. After losing my grandfather, my father and now my grandmother, death is no longer the foreign concept that it once was to me as a child. By now, I know what steps need to be taken after you receive that devastating phone call, and after the pain of grief subsides, there is work to be done. 

A few summers ago, as I was thoughtfully sifting through my Bijou’s belongings I was reminded of everything. I was reminded of her laughter, her style, her stories. Reminded of her eloquence, her refinement, her good fortune and her bad. I was reminded of my father, my grandfather and my Bijou all enjoying our time together. I packed away photographs and paintings and personal effects, putting into boxes someone’s entire lifetime of experiences and collections. Out of everything that was categorized, alphabetized and squirreled away for funerary housekeeping, what stood out to me the most were the love notes.

My Bijou had kept every single note that I had written her for her morning tea time. They were lovingly stored for safekeeping, only for me to find all the years later. Out of all the opulence, and lavish, what became the most significant were the little love notes scribbled away in the night to be paired with a cup of Earl Grey and her favorite white and blue porcelain teacup. In the end, I suppose that this story is not exactly making someone a cup of tea, but it was real, it was our ritual and it was love.