I once wrote how when my Uncle Dennis died, it was my host-grandmother who provided the only real comfort from anyone in my vicinity. I came to believe, then, that it was not necessarily our host-family relationship that led her to reach out to me, but something more fundamental: only that she is a Grandmother. Cultural differences all aside, I seemed to find myself in the presence of one honest universal: that grandmothers, whomever’s they are, care.
And so it was this morning that I rose to find my near-blind, well hunched and toothless host-grandmother, doddering around the kitchen; ensuring that I had tea and yogurt and leftover sheep for my breakfast. She spoke to me in the diminutive, like always, encouraging that I eat and that I drink, and insisting that I not rush. It was then that I thought I’d mention to her that it was my birthday.
“How old are you, grandma?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.
“86,” she said.
“Today,” I told her, “I’m 26.”
“26?” and she smiled, “you are 60 years my junior!” She was so bright, I knew I’d done the right thing. “Long life, happy life, good family, much happiness,” the blessings just went on and on. Then we sat down, I drank my tea, and dipped sliced of sheep into garlicky salsa.
“I don’t have any gifts for you today,” she said, out of the blue, “so let us say a prayer – To a long life, a happy family, a wonderful life,” and the litany began again. We ended it with the Kyrgyz “omin,” just the two of us, paired with the face washing gesture that ends every meal, and accompanies every prayer. A gesture that has taken on so much significance.
I had living grandmothers of my own once, and I loved them both. I used to listen to their stories, and pull on the papery skin of their hands. I read eulogies at both of their funerals. In one, I asked my family not to let the bonds she had built for us fall into neglect with her gone. At the other, I imagined her waiting at the gates of Heaven, patiently, for the time when we could run, like children, into her arms again.
Even while writing this now, I have just received a call from a coworker, another grandmother, to dole out even more birthday blessings; I don’t even know how she knew. Was it intuition?
Family, host-family, friends, girlfriend, coworkers – this story, my story, has been over and over, all about them. And I wonder, is this the story of Peace Corps? Or is it, simply, just the story.
