What We Miss

A collaboration of missing Lois Soglin.

This month my aunt Maddie and I agreed to collaborate on a joint writing project, a little experiment. We decided to explore the loss of my grandmother, her mother, and how this absence continues to be a gaping hole in both of our lives. 

For the first prompt, we decided on this question: What do we miss most about Lois? What I received from Maddie in response was so breathtakingly beautiful, I knew we had to be on to something.

Maddie with

Maddie's Musings

I carry a quiet but burning wish that in the end, I’ll be with my mom again.

I mourn for my two children, for whom, by not having their B-ma as they grew, live with a deficit that will be hard to measure, but I know exists. I compare myself to her as I assess my mothering skills and am sure I am falling short. This is not false modesty, begging for reassurance. This is, in my gut, a stone cold truth.

At 60, I am in some ways surprised at how strongly I stand.  On purely practical levels, I’ve moved forward. Twenty plus years without her, and despite my initial fears at the time of her death, I have not turned away from my family, crumbled, nor lost sight of my goals and responsibilities. I’ve shown up. I will continue to do so.

And yet, yet being such a tiny word and so laden with feelings of want and grief, I know what I’ve missed these last 20 years. 

Her love for me, her youngest of four, buoyed me through the treacherous waters of doubt, fear, risk, and pain. When she died, an anchor of love was released, and while I stayed afloat, the seas were rough and I was not a strong swimmer. She had carried me with an invisible net, but I didn’t know this until she was gone. Encouraging independence, she always pushed me with her nurturing ways to leave, explore, and pursue. I traveled away from her, tethered by a loving rope, always able to reel my way back or pull her to me when needed. 

Without her, I live in this world somewhat adrift. 

I picture myself as soaring through space, not alone, but with everything she taught and offered just out of reach. Her love and light floats in thousands of pieces past me. I can see it all.  I can almost touch it. Though when I focus very deeply, I can feel her, and that is when I’m at my best. That is when my children get their best mother and my husband his best wife. This is what I miss the most. Her presence and her love rooting me and delivering me to my center, so I can be for everyone I love what she was for me.

Simone with

Simone Says

This is a big, impossible question: What do I miss most about my grandmother, Lois? My answer changes often. But maybe since January is so cold, and my nose and toes cannot get warm, maybe that is why today I’m missing the concept of comfort and warmth. I am missing my grandmother’s house.

I miss it like one might yearn for a person; my heart cracked open and aching. 

The cold tiles by the front door.

The kitchen, with its skylight and white walls and sand-colored cabinetry. With the small, rectangular window above the sink, looking out to the backyard. Swinging doors, like those from a Wild West saloon, separated the kitchen from the dining room.

One dining room wall was entirely filled with baby portraits of her children, step-children, and their spouses. She left my own father on the wall, even after he and my mom divorced, and when I asked her why he remained, she said: Well I wouldn’t leave just anyone up there, but that is your dad! I left him up there for you.

The piano, where she first taught me to add musical notes while I told childhood stories. I’d bang on the lowest keys loud when the big bad wolf showed up, but when Little Red trotted through the woods, I’d play soft, light, and high-pitched.

The dance concerts we'd have, mostly improvisational, piano music playing on the speakers. Me, costumed in my aunt's too-big leotards, live carnations safety-pinned to nylon. 

The basement, prone to flooding. It’s wood paneled walls and bar where my cousins and I would play waitress or bartender. The sliding glass doors that led out to the below-ground, concrete patio.

The backyard. Where we’d play running bases, as well as every make believe game I could imagine. The back of the yard always held a touch of magic; where it seemed a fairy or woodland creature might appear at any minute.

And upstairs. My B-ma’s bedroom, her giant bed and rotating seasonal bedspread and throw pillows. Deep forest greens and rich purples in winter, changing to the light, feminine florals as the weather grew warm.

Her walk-in closet that she shared with my grandpa, which was my favorite place to hide during hide-and-go seek. While my cousins and I played, my grandfather sat on his light blue recliner, watching sports; his television perched on a stand. He’d never give up your hiding place; he barely even noticed our sneaking.

The house was an extension of her and today I miss it, as if it were an extension of me. The phones and their long, curling cords. The tan leather couch in the basement. The upstairs bathtub and its jarring jets. The laundry room, dank and dark, with grandchildrens’ heights measured in black permanent marker on the door frame.

And my B-ma, with her drawers filled with thick slipper socks. She was there. And I was finally warm.