25-Oct-2006

Today is a very sad day.  Mammy Jane, of chocolate pie and golfing and dinner party fame, has passed away.  Mammy who couldn't sit in a room with me for more than five minutes without exclaiming, "Oh, I just love you so much!", and Mammy who was only supposed to live six months with her diagnosis, but instead stuck it out for five years.  Mammy who was much more of a grandmother to me than my own could ever be, even though they're sisters.  The last time I saw her was when I was home in September.  She could barely hold her head up, but was trying to eat, and later that week, she called me, because she was so upset - she didn't remember me being down at her house at all.  It's fine, really, because I'd rather not remember her like that anyway.  I'd rather remember last September, when I called her up for her chocolate pie recipe.  She, of course, saw right through me.  "Are you trying to impress a boy?"  She asked.  "Because you shouldn't have to cook to impress a boy."  Later, we had a laugh when said boy started dating another girl in my building.  "Guess I should toss that recipe," she said.  Or her eighty-first birthday, when my cousin (of ice skating tag fame - he's her grandson) and I took her out for three rounds of Salty Dogs at the Dragon.  Or how, when I'd go down to her house, sometimes Ernestine, her younger sister would be there, and they'd be deep into wine and card-playing.  If Mammy was losing, she'd say, "Oh, poot!"  And then Ernestine would say, "Jane, just say fuck like a normal human being."  But Mammy was special.  Last summer, when I was at a family dinner, my grandmother remarked, in her lovely way, "Is it the fashion to wear tops that barely cover anything, Melissa?"  And Mammy retorted, "You're just jealous cause you couldn't get away with wearing that, no way, no how, but Melissa can.  She has a lovely figure."  Mammy always had my back.  I think we had a strong connection because she reminded me so very much of my mother, and I was always astounded that she, Mammy, wasn't my mother's mother, instead of the one she ended up with.  But, then again, Mammy had a strong connection with everyone.  In a room full of people, she could single you out with a look, a gleam in her eye, one that said, we have a secret, you and I, and let's not share it with anyone else.  The last thing she said to me was, "I love you, and I am so very proud of you."  I would say she could sense that it was the last time we'd talk, except Mammy ended all the conversations she had with me by saying just that.  And meaning it, every single time.