Black and Sun

My Nana, gone now from this world, ashes in a marble box… 

I knew you as a child knows anything: deeply, inextricably – but without understanding. Knowing, as one knows the feel of carpet between her toes, the smell of rain; but without understanding why, how, who…

Your camel coat in the winter; gold bangles on perfectly manicured hands. Smiling, always, in photographs; you radiated warmth and love and joy. Unconditional love. Unconditional joy. You represented the good witch, the fairy godmother, bearing sugar plums and presents. Presents for no reason, presents because it made you happy to give them.  

You introduced me to sweetness:  my first birthday cake – strawberry – age 4.

You observed that we shared the same favorite ice cream flavor (butter pecan).

You stocked your freezer full of blueberry blintzes and chocolate croissants for my visits.

You gathered fresh mangoes from your neighbor’s tree and kept them for me peeled and cut-up in baggies. Forever mangoes taste to me like warm mornings on a Florida sun-porch, accompanied by apple juice in a crystal wine glass.

Milk, which I hated, was made palatable by serving with a silver straw.

You bought me prom dresses and designer jeans. You permed my hair.

You had a lilt in your voice like a smile when you spoke.

You used to sing to me:

I’ll be loving you Always
With a love that’s true Always.
When the things you’ve planned
Need a helping hand,
I will understand Always.

Always.

Days may not be fair Always,
That’s when I’ll be there Always.
Not for just an hour,
Not for just a day,
Not for just a year,
But Always.

Literal child that I was, I couldn’t help but point out, “but Nana, you won’t be here always…”

To which you would smile and answer, “that’s true, I won’t be here always. But I’ll still be loving you from up there…”

Up where? Where’s up there?

What does a child really know of her grandmother? The grandness of the woman, but not the woman within.

She loved opera and jewelry and mink coats. I loved her opera, jewelry and mink coats. I loved her. But as I got older, the question nagged at me, “who’s her?” Who is the woman within my grandmother?

She used to love a certain photo collage that hung in the hall with images of herself as a child, my mother as a child and me. She used to reflect on how we all looked so much alike. I agreed, but didn’t. Three generations of blond tow-heads, but so, so different. I found my mother’s eyes peering out of the gentle face of her father, gone before I was born. But I couldn’t find mine.

It wasn’t until years later, as Nana’s memories had already begun their escape, that I found an old photo of Claire. Of Claire the young woman that lived somewhere burrowed within the grandness that was my grandmother. Claire with a thin, long face. Pensive, quiet. As I studied this picture, I wished I could speak to this woman; this woman about my age, newly married, perhaps questioning the world around her. It was in this picture that I realized I never really knew my grandmother, but also realized that I did.

The process of knowing a person continues on long after she is gone. My Nana is woven into my memories, mapped into the texture of my psyche. Lingering in the riddles of my DNA. As I move through the stages of life, I come to know Nana less, but know this woman Claire more.

She is me. I am her. Our ancestors, those that love us, those that we love – they do not leave us.

Claire Messel Kopff Antman 
September 15, 1917 - October 22, 2007