I needed a blank notecard a few weeks ago. I don't remember exactly why but there was some occasion that necessitated a blank space to write a quick "thank you" or a "hope you are well". So off I went to the shelf of random useful stuff. In addition to a small sewing kit and a silver plated ice bucket (Hey, you never know when you might have a champagne chilling emergency!), it contains a box of random cards. I have Hallmark cards I've bought without a specific use just because they made me laugh. I have a whole slew of animal-themed cards. (You know, one of those packs of twenty-five cards that have a few birthday cards with pictures of zoo animals, a few get well soons with a picture of a particularly mournful turtle and ones with blank insides. They are exceedingly cheesy, but have saved my bacon on more than one occasion when I hadn't planned well enough in advance for a birthday.) While rummaging in the deep, dark recesses of the box, I pulled out a ziplock baggie with a few cards of the 3x5 variety. Inside the bag was a note from my maternal grandmother--just a simple greeting in her distinctive handwriting--telling me that she found these cards with drawings of cats on them and decided to send them to me. (I am a great lover of cats, whether of the live or decorative variety, which anyone who knows me well can attest.) It was almost as if I'd stumbled upon a tiny little time machine--a way back to an era when my grandma was alive and well and sending me little gifts for no reason at all. You see, my grandma passed away in April of 2003 from a recurrance of breast cancer. I miss her dearly still.
Oh sure, I don't think about her every day, but certain items or events will bring her back to me with a startling clarity--a certain phrase of music, the scent of the perfume Shalimar, a piece of her jewelry, or even handwriting that resembles hers. It's then that I miss her with an almost physical pain, this petite dynamo, this fierce proponent of her (intelligent and multi-talented) children and grandchildren, this volunteer deluxe. I had a brief moment, sitting with the the note in my hand and the plastic sack full of cat cards in my lap, where I wondered if it really was a message from her. If she had somehow sent me on a course toward it, knowing that I'd find a welcoming presence there. I don't claim to know the intricacies of the universe, but I do know that the whole thing left me in a warm, sweet, blissful state, so I guess it doesn't matter one way or another exactly how I arrived there.
I was reminded of this serendipity on Mother's Day. This is a day, of course, where we think about and honor our mothers and grandmothers, but it is also a day that brings with it some pretty heavy baggage for an infertile person. It is one of those days when it is glaringly obvious that you don't have a descendent to call your own. That someday, when your own mother is gone (God forbid), there won't be a reason to celebrate at all and no one to celebrate you. The whole event has a tendency to take on a none too maudlin aspect so it was good this year to spend time with each of our mothers as well as to remember all four of our grandmothers, who have passed on before us. And I was able to think of the children in our lives (niece, nephews, and those children of friends who call us "aunt" and "uncle") and while I may not be related to them by blood, I am fairly sure that I am (and will continue to be) a positive, welcome influence in their lives. I can only hope that someday, in the far, far future, that one of them might find a distantly written note of mine and think of me fondly and wish I were still around.
P.S. In case anyone is interested, TLS and I had a fabulous anniversary dinner last night. We were so stuffed by the time we left the restaurant, but I have a doggie bag full of my entree that has my name written all over it for dinner tonight.
