Memories From My Grandmother


I wrote a poem for my grandmother once. It was a Christmas present. I talked about her homestead, our homestead. The small house in the Acadian village, the clam flats across the street. The island in the middle of clam flats. We called it Cow’s Island. The long winding shore road. The view of the Catholic Church. The warn down fields behind her house. The land we wondered when we were children when my mother and her siblings were children.

Life seemed to move on. We just moved with it. Visits on weekends and holidays. Visits in the summer. Trips to the general store to get ice cream. Picking blackberries and blueberries until you couldn’t see the color of our fingers. Life seem to move on. Movie nights in the small living room. Sleepovers under the stars. Barbecues in the backyard. Tobogganing in the winter. Riding our bikes in the summer. Card games with family and friends. Life moved on or so it seemed.

My childhood was a blur, created through memories and lies. Life seemed to move on all around me while I was lost in a world of make-believe. I remember bits and pieces that don’t add up to the happiness of times. The rest of the memories submerged in the darkness of my subconscious. They remained lost in a world of imagination and dreams. A world I lived in to survive. In these dark times, I felt disconnected from the outside world. I blocked out the people who cared about me, who loved me. I blocked out my grandmother and hid the truth behind a mask. I hid the truth behind my eyes and became lost in a whirlwind that we call life.

I missed out on the times that her laughter filled the room and how her laughter made everyone laugh just from her laughing. I missed out on the times of comfort and of love. I missed out on the way her brown eyes would crystal. I missed out on enjoyments of church picnics, birthday celebrations, and fireworks. I was never really there in the moments we all came together. Even when it was the two of us, I was never really there. It was as if I was lost in a motion picture, that was put on fast forward, it was as if there was only enough time to choose the happy memories, over those of distrust and heartbreak. Since I was never really there, I missed out on the truth of what she knew. Which was more than what I knew, which was more than what any of us knew.

She saw love. She saw how it surrounded each and every one of us. She saw our hurt, pain and heartbreaks. She saw the truth in every one of us, even at times when we could not see it ourselves. She saw what we wanted to be not what we were. She saw life and the emotions that came with it. She experienced life and the emotions that came with it. She survived and carried on living as the decades changed, as the universe transformed itself. She held the family up. Carried us on her shoulders. She carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves. It’s because she knew. She always knew. Even when we didn’t.

I remember being at work and getting a call from my mother. She told me to come home because my grandmother wasn’t doing well. That’s what I did. I was on the next flight home. That’s what many of us did. Between the moment I got off the plane, and what unfolded afterwards staggers in my mind. It’s not as important as what matters in our relationship now, but the events played a role in building it to this point. I stayed with her in the nursing home as many of us did. We flooded the room, and the outside hallways. We were all waiting. Endlessly waiting for her death. We knew it was the end, but what I did not know at that time was that it was an end of a new beginning. The first night, I slept on the end of her bed, curled up in a little ball and dosed in and out of sleep. I remember my uncle coming in and getting cross at me for discomforting her physical pain. I think it comforted her to have me there, it helped her to get lost in the in-between, lost in thoughts of her journey yet to come. I don’t think she was afraid, nervous or scared. I don’t think the other family members understood what she felt. I think she felt peace. Peace from her angels and guides, peace now knowing the unknown, peace of discovering the journey that was ahead of her, knowing her life was not yet over.

In the moments before she took her new life, we all gathered around her body and again I was at the foot of the bed, my hands on her feet. The room suddenly disappeared and a child reappeared, a small child, no more than five or six with long black hair. She stood there smiling at me, giggling. A field surrounded us, the sky filled with white light. “Who are you?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Ruby.” She giggled as she began to walk towards the light. “Ruby.”

It was in that moment my relationship with my grandmother grew. It was that moment that lead me to believe there was more to life than what was in front of our eyes and in the physical world around us.  Sometimes it remained unknown to me if she was there, and at other’s her presence was overwhelming. It wasn’t until January that I began to know why, and understand my abilities as a psychic medium. In this new life, she has taught me it’s her job to protect me, to guide me, teach me the truth about the known and unknown. It’s her job to help me discover my own truth and sense self. It’s her job to help me teach you how to discover your own truth and sense of self. More importantly it’s her job to help me bring love to myself, to you and to the world around us. It is love that brings forth the truth and helps you to develop who you are.



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