We called her Gog

Gnocchi, bow-tie pasta, small lollipops, butterscotch treats and strawberry candies, are what come to mind when I think about her. A house that at the time seemed larger then life. A small toy room with outdated toys, hi-ho-a-cherrio, pick-up-stix, and a small train that was used to roll around the hallways.

Golf was always blaring on the TV. Clowns, and mystical clear glass creatures surrounded her at all times. Pictures of family past and present displayed to enwrap her with love, and remembrance of happy times. I can remember how fragile her hands were, how tiny she really was. I remember how her hair was always in place, how she always dressed to the nines, every layer of clothing precisely picked. I could tell she had stories, she came from a different time.

I grew up knowing her as Gog, which in my mind stood for Great Old Grandmother, and I would like to remember it as such. There was a presence of wealth, and just dignity in the way she carried herself, and the way she looked at her family. She looked at us as if we were truly her treasures in life. She didn't ask for much, she just liked to be around as much as her health would allow.

I remember her backyard and the childhood memories I shared there. My brother and I would always play on that beautiful pear tree. It was one of those trees that allowed you to cling to it, really embraced you when you began to climb on its branches. There was a single trunk that my brother and I fit snug into. It was as if it was made for her great-grand children to play on and enjoy.

I can remember looking up, sun beating on my skin, and seeing her looking through the window at my brother and I. Colored leaves scattered throughout the lawn, and her contently glancing at us, with eyes and a stare that warmed any ounce of cold we were feeling on that brisk day.

As vivid as the beautiful moments are that I have of her, I always come back to the day I said goodbye. Entering that room, pushing her hair back, and planting a single kiss on her forehead. This was my first experience with death. This to me was the moment that I understood what it felt like to lose someone you loved, it was disheartening, and excruciating, but she was at peace.

The thing about Gog, my Gog, was that she knew who she was. Her presence was so grounded in understanding that when it was her time to go, there would be no fight. There wasn't a grudge to be held, she simply sat, and accepted her fate. She was surrounded by family, and she took her last few breaths in a room full of tears and unexplainable love.

It was the first time I saw true pain in my father's eyes. It was the first time that I went to a funeral, and experienced what you do after someone leaves this earth. What I truly can appreciate is knowing that although she is no longer with us, the gratitude I have for getting to know her, over exceeds any hurt I felt when I lost her. This to me is a true statement in what it means to live a life of love, appreciation, and valuing what is most important, your family.

The irony in that pear tree, is knowing that it's still proudly standing there, having other children play and appreciate it. But I know that if I ever made it back to her house, to her tree, I would look up and see here smiling, starring, content, and at peace.