Memories of Babuska

02/28/15

The person who talked at the memorial for my babuska kept talking about things unrelated to my babuska. Instead of dwelling on that, I decided to just think about memories I could muster up for her.

There's the general ones, you know. How every time we finally arrived at her house she would greet us with a hug that belonged to only her. She'd come up close and squeeze me tight, and then just rock me back and forth with great energy. For most of my youth, it always took me by surprise. By the time I was expecting it, I was bigger than her, and she would tell me I shook her with too much. She became small and fragile so quickly, it seems.

Babuska would always make us breakfast when we visited. Cereal and eggs. The cereal was cream of wheat, and the eggs were soft-boiled. She would always provide the cream of wheat with an ice cube on top. She would tell me to stir it until the ice cube completely disappeared.

Thinking of Babuska mostly makes me think of the house. Makes me think of the short walk to the grocery store down the block. We always took the back way there. We would cross a bridge and feed the ducks. We'd go to the candy isle and I would eat out of the self-bagged candy selection.

For the last two years or so, I tried to call her once a week. I wasn't perfect, but I did call quite regularly. Every time I called her, I asked her how she was doing. "I'm still here," she would say. She would always ask about the aspects of my life I told her about.

"How do you like work? How is your dog and your cat?"

And then I saw her one last time in Canada. She didn't really open her eyes except for once. When she did, she asked, "Am I dead?" and my aunt said, "No, you're still here." My babuska smiled and laughed, because that's what she always said.

She talked about how she loved everyone, and she was glad I was there.

All my memories. Seem so few now. So abstract. So general. I wonder, how much of my memories are really accurate.

I guess it doesn't matter. The feelings they inspire are real and accurate.