Once upon a time, when I was a child, my dear mother bought my grandma an exceptionally large decorative rooster. This wasn’t because my mother had an odd choice in gifts. At the time my grandma was decorating with lots and lots of roosters. It was very thoughtful, even if it was a little obtrusive at times. Later she would change her décor, but she held on to the big rooster. She would mention it to me many times over the years in a not so loving way. She referred to it mostly as “that damn rooster.” The truth is, I’m pretty sure she loved it.
Yesterday my mom sent me a picture of the rooster on her mantle. Even after my grandma’s passing the rooster was here to stay. If we would’ve known this twenty years ago as I sat at the kitchen table while my grandmother talked smack on this beautiful bird, we would’ve had a good laugh together. I wanted to tell her right then. I smiled as I imagined that conversation. I hate that we can’t have it.
It’s been two months since my grandma died, but I haven’t accepted that she’s really gone. Each “thing” hits me a little harder, driving me closer to the moment I know will come. It will finally soak in, and I will unravel. Until then, I’ll just laugh and keep waiting on my rotisserie chicken to finish warming.
This last week has been one of those times I would have sought her advice. I’ve doubted the value of my blog and YouTube videos. I’ve wondered if it is a waste of time. I’m not a professional writer or vlogger. What am I doing? At first, she would’ve asked me questions about it. She would’ve told me I was a “little fish in a big pond” and that I should find something else to do. I would explain to her that I do not want to be famous or make money, I just want to help people. It makes no difference if it’s one person or a thousand. She would tell me that she was proud of me and that I should do whatever makes me happy.
I imagine I will play out many more of these imaginary conversations as the years go on. I will try unsuccessfully to recreate her macaroni salad. I will play her rendition of Here Comes Peter Cottontail that is saved to my phone when I want to hear her voice. I will instinctively reach out to grab a box of Chocodiles when I see them in the store so that I can take them to her, then put them back when I remember she’s not here. All those things might make me cry, but every time I see “that damn rooster” I’ll be laughing on the inside.
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