These were my grandmother’s books. On this anniversary of her death, I have been looking at photos I took of little corners throughout her home. I can still find her wisdom and her voice folded away like a sachet that sometimes gets jostled and leaves a subtle scent. She was so good at imparting family stories, gifting us with a sense of who we came from.
In 2018, I overheard her telling my mom about her father Axel’s passing. Assigned to the shift that night was a nurse who could speak his native language, Swedish. The nurse was not just able to speak words of comfort, but do it in the language of his parents and childhood. She spoke to him, quietly and tenderly, easing his fears during his final hours.
My parents and my aunt were with my grandmother on her last night. They told me that they read to her from the book of my dad’s childhood memories. I don’t know what she heard or understood, but I am glad that there were words of comfort and memory in the room for her, too.