The Strength of Her Smile.

To My Dearest Nana

I was only fifteen years old when you passed away. And I have missed you, every single day since.

It’s taken me years to realize just how strong you were. I wish so badly that I had taken the time to listen to you more, to ask you about all the crazy moments you lived through. You witnessed the birth of an entire nation. One day you were an Indian citizen, and then, suddenly you were among the first generation of people who called themselves “Pakistani.” What was that time in your life like? How did you live? How did you feel? These are questions I will never know the answer to, but I do know it was hard for you, like it was for so many. Life was a struggle, and every moment was uncertain. Yet you kept smiling, and soldiered on.

You mothered six children on a pittance of an income. Two of those children did not survive to adulthood. My mother tells me she dreams of the baby sister and brother she barely knew; she believes you are with them now. I hope you are, and I hope you are at peace. You never once let on to the sadness you must have felt, when no parent should ever have to experience the pain of losing a child even once. Somehow you endured the pain. You kept smiling, and soldiered on.

You followed my grandfather to begin a new life, one in a foreign land where you could not speak the language. You did it to provide your children, your grandchildren, ME, with a better life. It was bitterly cold in the Canadian winters and you were in poor health since before I was born. Yet you would bundle yourself up against the elements, and you’d walk us to and from school each day. My mother needed you to help her as she worked her factory job, and you delivered, uncomplaining, each and every school day. It wasn’t easy, but you kept smiling and soldiered on.

My grandfather was a smoker. Yet you were the one who paid the consequences. You couldn’t breathe on your own; COPD is such an awful illness to have. They put an oxygen machine in the apartment, and you were hooked up to it by a long, plastic tube. You were bound to that loud device; stayed within 20 feet of the thing for so many years. But you’d take it off for family photos, wouldn’t you? Because you, Dear Nana, wanted to look good. You lit up every photograph, ever smiling, ever soldiering on.

There were so many problems in our family, weren’t there? So much anger from the men folk who felt slighted by their menial jobs and who took it out on the women when they got home. They would yell, and demand, and criticize. I never saw you lose your composure, Nana. Not even once. You would listen, always patient, and you would find some way to raise everyone’s spirits once more. Sometimes you would tease, other times you would cook something special that made the whole house come together. We’d eat, and laugh, as you looked on, proud of your family. You sat at the head of the table, and you would smile, still determined to soldier on.

I remember when the end was near. You had a heart attack. I sat by your hospital bed afterschool sometimes. I remember when the nurse yelled at you! She was shocked at how high your blood sugar was! And you shrugged, feigning ignorance, pretending you didn’t understand. Then, when she left, you gave me a little smirk and whispered to me, “I ate the ice cream.” Oh you devious woman you! I nearly fell out my chair laughing. But that was your plan, wasn’t it? To make me laugh? Because even though you were terrified yourself, weak, away from home, and surrounded by strangers, I was the one you were worried about. For my sake, you kept smiling and soldiered on.

I’m thirty-three now Nana. Sometimes I feel so lost. Making a living isn’t easy. Relationships aren’t easy. I doubt, and I worry, and I get so depressed sometimes I don’t even want to get out of bed. But then I remember you. And then I try to keep smiling, and soldier on.

I Love you, and I'll miss you forever.

Your Granddaughter;

-N