Amid the hundreds of other holidays Ukraine has this
month, Remembrance Day stands as one of the more somber occasions. Not unlike
Mexico’s Day of The Dead, people gather at the graves of loved ones, celebrate
the lives they lived, and miss them.
I like this holiday. We don’t have one like it in
America, as far as I know. We have Memorial Day, but what about those who died without banners waving? I suppose it’s up to
us to remember them in our own way, on a day of our choosing. Maybe it would be
their birthday, or their anniversary, or the day they died.
I hope Ukraine doesn’t mind, but I’m going to borrow
their holiday for a minute and remember someone today who recently passed away.
My Grandmother – or Yia-Yia, in Greek – died in my absence
almost two months ago. It’s a strange thing when death happens without you. You’ve
already gone without the person for so long that when someone calls you and
says that you must now go on without them forever, it feels unreal. Like you’ll
return in a year and a half to find them right where you left them, still
sitting in the kitchen, talking on the phone. You must believe the loss on your
own. You must accept it without having said goodbye.
I never really knew my Yia-Yia. That’s not to say I didn’t
hug her, or sit with her, or love her. No, I was very lucky. I had the privilege
of growing up with her constant presence. When I say I didn’t know her, it’s
because I never knew her favorite color, or if she liked peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches, or if she preferred winter to summer. How it was when she first
came to America? What was it like when she met my Pa-Pouli? What was her
favorite movie? Did she like to swim? Those are all questions I never asked. When
I say I didn’t know her, it’s because I never spoke with her.
If I’ve learned one thing in Ukraine, it’s the
importance of language. When I was younger, I never grasped the point. In a
room of people all speaking Greek, I was content to sit there without
understanding a word. I knew when something was important, someone would lean
in and whisper the English translation in my ear. Now that I’m older and have learned
another language, I see what a horrible mistake that was. I see now that it was
never a matter of understanding the language, but rather understanding the person.
Had I known Greek, I would have been able to ask my
Yia-Yia all of those questions. We could have had discussions or told each
other jokes. We might have even argued! I would have been able to tell her
about myself, too. We might have had a lot in common. And not having that
chance – never learning Greek – is something I will always regret.
This is what I do know… This is what I will remember…
She baked Greek cookies all the time, and towards the end when her strength was
waning, she still baked with the help of Pa-Pouli. She cooked thick noodles in
red sauce that I never liked, but pretended to like. She made me oil and bread
with salt every time I came over. She rubbed my back when I fell asleep
watching cartoons. She cried when she was happy. She cried a lot. And when she
died, the last words she heard were words of love.
And while it’s not everything – while it’s not the
little puzzle-piece particulars of the soul that made her – I know that she
loved and was loved.
I will remember her for that.
