Catalina Cohn de Klein, my grandmother.
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I never had the chance to meet my mother’s mom, but neither did she. There were complications with child birth and lone behold, my mom adopted her name.
Katalina.
I understand how so many people when they think of this moment associate tragedy, but because I never had a chance to meet my grandmother, this moment in time is brighter to me than most. It’s the day my best friend was born. The day I’ll get to celebrate for the rest of my life with her.
But for my mom, it’s painful. Every time she blew out the candles on a cake, the grueling idea that it was her life or her father’s soulmate's— the idea that has probably crossed his mind too often, which one he would have picked if he had a choice. That thought would be followed with a quick, stop it! A deep breath in, and a long breath out. One more birthday would go by without her mother.
My mom tells me stories about her and I find it interesting just how well she tells them considering she knows her just as well as I do. We revive her through pictures, through laughter, and just by being there for one another.
In a way, I think I was sent here to take care of my mother by my grandmother. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 10. It wasn’t until I was well into College that she would get better. I took care of her. I took care of my brother. I did the work any mother would do for their child.
They say I look like her. We share the same smile, the same enthusiasm for life. She was strong and independent, had a love for academics. I think about her daily and what my role is on this earth.
With her absence came life, an unfortunate truth in many people’s stories. With my life comes reason, one to continue the story of her journey that was cut many years too short.
I called my mom today, and we talked about her mother. My grandmother. We decided that if we had the chance, we would invite her to dinner, dressing our antique wooden European table with decadent Rooster themed table clothes and plates, my mom’s favorites. We would share a bottle of 1989 Klein Vineyard’s Cabernet Sauvignon, created by my grandfather almost 30 years after her passing.
We don’t know what her favorite food is, what she loves to drink with a meal. If she’s anything like my mom and me, she won’t care about what’s on the plate in front of her but be more entranced by the company.
My mom and I would create a scrap book of every moment we’ve wanted to share with her. My mom’s first steps, my mom’s first word, my mom’s first day of school, her first heartbreak. My mom would tell her about how hard it was growing up without a mom. How hard it was to understand not having someone there for you at the age of six when you’re being abused by a stranger who married your father. She would tell her how much she wanted her at her weddings, and laugh about the plural. She would cry when repeating the memory of her first blood transfusion during a medical complication involving her cancer, the same treatment that took my grandmother’s life.
More importantly, I would sit there and watch my mom and my grandmother interact. I would sit there and wander what life would have been like if only she had seen her daughter grow up into a beautiful woman who raised a spunky stubborn daughter who will hopefully have a child of her own one day.