A single tear escaped the corner of my eye, burned its way down my cheek, and dipped onto my hand, which still held the gruesome letter. My only thought was how a piece of paper can hold the power to sink your entire world, but then, I wasn't thinking quite right. The rock that had always been my anchor, my constant in life was no longer alive. I felt robbed, wronged in the most basic way; fate had taken away the one person I trusted blindly, the one human I truly loved, my grandmother.
I have heard that grief is accompanied by five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have yet to experience them, for my only response was the sweet memory of my grandmother's hand tightening in support on my shoulder, taking me through a memory lane I will willingly share.
"I simply don't understand chemistry!" I muttered, while trying to make sense of a book that could have been written in Latin for all I understood. My grandmother had heard, so she approached calmly, while I angrily scribbled chemistry formulas. "Don't worry," she said, then sat down besides me and picked up my chemistry book.
Reading it aloud, and stopping to explain every couple of minutes, she made the subject feel familiar. The alien lines where sensible when spoken by her reasonable voice. Together we studied chemistry and I finally understood what had been irritating me for weeks. By the end of the hour, chemistry had become one of my favorite subjects.
Running excitedly, I entered my father's office. In one breath I told him of my decision; I wanted to attend MAC, the infamous private high school in Kosovo. As an 8th grader whose greatest concern was whether I had gotten an A+ on my exam, I didn't understand my father's reluctance to meet my eyes. Ignorant of the difficult position I had placed him, I eagerly waited for his confirmation, never thinking of a private school's cost. "Mjellma we can't ..." I didn't wait for the rest; I ran to my room, locked the door and collapsed behind it, crying about my misfortune. One hour had gone by when grandma's soft knock sounded at my door. Wanting to hear comforting words, awaiting a chance to covey my grief I opened the door. She didn't come in, didn't embrace me as she had every time I had been hurt; instead she told me about her childhood. I had always though of my grandmother as an independent woman who had had a life similar to mine, a life surrounded by people who supported and loved her, people who gave her the attention I had received. How wrong had I been. Little had I known that my grandmother had been raised in a family of 25 people; that she had had to walk for one hour to go to school. I wouldn't have believed that she had had to share a loaf of bred (her whole breakfast) with her siblings and cousins, that she had considered meat to be a rare dedicates in her childhood. No, I wouldn't have believed any ones words but hers. My 60-year-old grandmother, the graceful woman who had been my role model since infancy, had undergone such a horrific childhood. But she had never given up, even though her future had looked grim, hopeless to be precise. She had held onto her dreams, had fought her way to success, and now stood before me as a university professor with a PhD and several published books. When she finished her life's story, she laid a kiss on my cheek and left me at the doorstep, standing speechless, lost in her grim story.
Six months from that day, with a paper confirmation of the full, four year scholarship for MAC I embraced my grandmother tightly, thanking her for opening my eyes, showing me that miracles did exist, but it was in our hands to make them happen.
Grandmother Mandy, as I used to call her, has been a beloved mother, supporting friend, and a dedicated teacher to me. She has helped me face life's challenges, has supported me.
Now I stand here thinking of what she would have said. "I am an old woman, you need to shine for both of us." words she had repeated continually finally made sense. She had once again given me purpose, given me guidance. She had wanted me to continue the pursuit of my goals and not dwell on her death, for she had known if was coming.
Her legacy has given me the strength I need to overcome any possible obstacle standing in my way, her lessons have changed my view of the words, her compassion has grown on me. My role model is dead, but I am alive and through me she will live as well.
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