To Love From Afar
October 28, 2024
Writer: Anushi Varma
Editor: Lexie Meltzer
There’s nothing I look forward to more than my birthday. Every year, my mom would decorate the living room and kitchen with streamers and confetti. My dad would come home from work and give me a kiss on the head, and my friends would send me happy birthday messages with sweet, goofy pictures celebrating our relationships. When I was younger, I looked forward to my birthday for the gifts. As I’ve grown and moved away from home, I think less about the gifts and more about the gentle love I received from family and friends.
My grandpa used to celebrate my birthday by gifting me not one, not two, but three, sometimes four birthday cards. Each card came with a different pre-written message, embroidery on the cover, design, material, but each one was signed just the same with his love. Of all the cards I received on my birthday from my family, all posed nicely along our dinner table, his outnumbered and outshined the rest. His portrayal of affection was simple and quaint. In middle school, my grandpa would wait at the bus stop and walk me home, even though I lived just down the corner. While eating dinner, he would feed me rice, despite my insistence that I could do it myself. We didn’t talk much, at least compared to my other grandparents, yet our connection felt just as personal.
More than words and actions, I still remember the feeling of his mustache every time he would kiss me on the cheek. Since he was much shorter than I was, I would crouch down slightly to meet his eye level, just so he could see my face. Even as he transitioned from living independently to with assistance in a memory care facility, he always greeted me with the same kiss. Our other habits and traditions had since faded away. He could no longer drive or understand where we lived. The myriad of birthday cards suddenly disappeared, and my most recent experiences with him dwindled down to our five minute conversations together every Sunday.
Once I started college, I only saw him on the rare occasion that I came home. The increased time between our visits and his difficulty with memory made it hard for me to find significance in our time together. There was little to take away, and it felt as though there was even less for me to offer. When he passed away, I sat in a fog of hypocritical remorse: I was sad about his death but ashamed to admit that I hadn’t felt connected to him in the past six years of his illness. I didn’t feel I had enough reason to mourn, as there was little substance to remember from our recent interactions.
Now, as I look at pictures of us together, even from his retirement home, I focus less on the words we shared and more on the physical expressions of love I can still see and feel. I remember his kiss on my cheek and hugging him at the end of our visits. I remember playing cards and eating dinner together when he would visit my home. I remember driving to Subway to have lunch after spending the day together when I visited his home in Indiana prior to his diagnosis. I remember sitting in his room as a little girl and watching the game show Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?, just me and him.
There is so much love to remember, and as I write this, I recall even more—more than he ever could. I have every reason to mourn, and it’s as simple and quaint as the love we shared. I mourn someone I will never see again and for the time that pulls me farther away from my childhood memories with my grandpa. Yet, I find peace knowing his touch will never be erased. Love was never meant to be perpetually seen but felt, and I carry his impression with me every day, at my deepest and most intimate level.
