just like a woman

My grandmother just called me and told me all about the picture show she had seen this afternoon, the one with the plane and with that very handsome young man. She had eaten popcorn with extra butter and very much enjoyed her afternoon. When we were done talking, I asked if my mom was there, and she said no, but she'd let me talk to my sister.

My mom took her phone back from her mother. Of course Grandmother hadn't left the Alzheimer's ward today and hasn't been to the movies in years. And I don't have a sister. She's much better at recognizing me when I'm there in person, but over the phone she often confuses me for my aunt. But it's okay-- mostly I just like to hear her voice, especially on a day like today when, even though she didn't know who I was, her first born granddaughter who used to spend entire summers on her screen porch, her voice was strong and clear and she had a story to tell me, just like it used to be. I could pretend for a minute it was really a grandmother talking to her granddaughter, rather than what it is, what it has become.

I suppose I should feel lucky that she doesn't have Alzheimer's, that it's just dementia, but somehow I don't.

My mother is a strong, beautiful woman. It sounds cliche for any woman, especially a feminist, to speak those words about her mother, but they are such distinct and concrete adjectives I feel they are the most appropriate for her. As a mother, she was loving but overbearing at times, a disciplinarian who could raise one single eyebrow, arched over an almond shaped eye, and drop the edges of her mouth, and you knew, you just knew, you were in for it. Hands on her feminine hips, she'd stare you down until you slowly moved back into the position she wanted.

She was not a demonstrative or an emotional woman; I'm still surprised when she hugs me sometimes. But I am never unsure that she loves me. Everything she did and everything she does for me, and for her boys, she does with joy. Shuttling me to and from gymnastics, humming Madonna songs, watching all my basketball games, cheering me on, dropping me off at college, buttoning up my white dress. I was hers, her own little girl, to mold. She never called herself a feminist, but through her strong hands and voice and opinions I learned to think for myself, to care for myself, and never let anyone push me around.

I owe a large part of who I am to her mother as well, a larger-than-life woman to me, who raised three girls even after losing one very early to cancer, a woman who demanded an egalitarian life with her husband before anyone knew what that was. A creative and expressive woman, she was able to push paint into elegant arrangements, stitch together bits of fabric into lovely garments, measure just right for the most mouthwatering meals, and move earth and seeds to grow both food and flowers, all while weaving stories to entertain and teach us. I am blessed to have been in her company, as was my mother, and I find I am doubly blessed to have had my mother as well.

I struggle to find my own voice sometimes, though, in the presence of all this womanly fortitude. The point of this endeavor I believe is to create my point of view, my way of seeing through my grandmother's, my mother's, and now my eyes, taking into account all the things they have seen and been and all the things I will see and be in my lifetime. Who am I as a woman and as a human, and what will I become?

As my grandmother's voice fades, at times I feel my strength fading with her, and although my mother hasn't expressed it to me in so many words, I know she feels it too. It's difficult to watch a person with such presence dwindle and wilt. But we both know that this is passing on, that there will come a time when we don't have her at all, and our voices will change. We will let them change because they must, but we must not let them lose their vigor.