ghost

My maternal grandma, Rose Marie, died about five years ago.

Today, I went to a birthday party to celebrate Ma Tante Bern's (her eldest sister's) 80th birthday. It was part party, part reunion--seeing relatives I haven't seen in a long time and meeting others for the first time ("I haven't seen you since you were five" or "The last time I saw you, you were in diapers!" or "You have eyes like Rose Marie's" were the favourite phrases of the day).

Mingling around with beer in-hand (not so wise after a Saturday night filled with Crown Royal!), I made my way through generations of the family and answered, "I'm teaching and doing my Ph.D." and "No, I'm not married" about a thousand times. Sounds painful, certainly, but it really wasn't. Just redundant. Just redundant.

Ma Tante Bern's face is the spitting image of my grandma's. Hugging Ma Tante Cecile is like hugging her. Mon Oncle Peter's crass sense of humour is the humour that she adored. My mom's mannerisms are like her more and more everyday. And I heard stories from people who knew my grandparents 60 years ago when they were first married.

Throughout all of this, I had a twinge that I haven't felt in a long time. Whether it was repressed or just forgotten for a little while, I don't know. But today was challenging in a way I never expected. I missed her. In some way, she was all around me. But I really missed her.