I had to pause for a moment.
The garden blurred before my eyes.
I remembered that conversation.
I was 34.
We had been trying to have a child for two years.
We had just learned that the first fertility treatment had not been successful.
I hadn’t told most people.
But Grandma knew about it.
We were sitting in her kitchen at the time.
I said:
« Maybe it just won’t happen to me. »
Grandma had taken my hand across the table and said:
« Maybe. But today isn’t every day. »
That was all.
She hadn’t told me to relax.
She hadn’t claimed it would happen as soon as I stopped thinking about it.
She hadn’t promised me a miracle.
Only:
Today is not every day.
Apparently, she then went home and started sewing.
I continued reading.
« I didn’t do it because I knew you were going to have a baby. »
« I did it because hope needs a place to wait. »
« If no one had ever worn it, that wouldn’t make your life any smaller. »
« You never waited to finally be enough. »
« But if a child comes along one day, I wanted that child to own something that was made before it was even known. »
I couldn’t continue reading for a while.
Mark held my hand.
Grandma was watching me.
Her eyes were moist.
I continued.
« I finished most of it when I was 94. »
« Then my hands got worse. »
« I left my sleeve open because I thought that maybe one day you could finish something I started. »
I looked at the unfinished dress.
« I’m terrible at sewing. »
Grandma smiled.
« I know that. »
Everyone laughed.
That helped.
I continued reading.
« The other clothes belong to your mother and you. »
« Three little girls. »
« Three different times. »
« If I am lucky enough to meet your daughter, dress her in something that suits her. »
« Don’t keep things so safe that nobody is allowed to use them. »
« Clothes are meant to wrinkle. »
« Children are meant to make things dirty. »
« Love doesn’t get better if you leave it untouched. »
I lowered the page.
This sentence affected me more than anything else.
Because I had spent Lily’s first year filled with fear.
Not constantly.
But often enough.
After a miscarriage in the 14th week, I had treated joy as if it were something that could be punished if I trusted it too much.
When Lily was born, I counted her breaths.
I checked the monitor every ten minutes.
I woke Mark up because I thought she was too warm.
Then, because it was too cold.
I researched every rash.
Every sound.
Any unusual diaper.
I had wanted her for so long that sometimes owning her felt less like a gift and more like something fragile that had been carefully handed to me.
Grandma had noticed it.
Of course she did.
The letter continued.
« And one more thing. »
« Stop looking scared every time that child climbs somewhere. »
« You’ve climbed everywhere. »
« Your mother was even worse. »
Mom said:
« That’s a lie. »
Grandma answered immediately:
« You climbed onto a garage roof when you were eight years old. »
« I got a ball. »
« You climbed up the drainpipe. »
« I was resourceful. »
We laughed.
Then I reached the last section.
« If I am present when this letter is opened, someone should give me the baby. »
« When I’m not there, you tell her that I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet her. »
« And tell her that I was glad she came. »
I could no longer read the signature.
I folded the letter against my chest.
Then I crawled across the grass and carefully took my grandmother in my arms.
She felt frighteningly small.
Bones and cotton and warm skin.
Grandma had been strong all my life.
She carried laundry baskets.
She moves furniture.
She picked me up, even though I was far too old for it.
Now I was afraid that my hug might hurt her.
She patted me on the back.
« You’re making a scene. »
« You wrote the letter. »
« Years ago. »
« That makes it worse. »
She laughed softly.
Then Lily reached for the box.
Naturally.
Their first target was a blue glass button.
“No,” said three generations of women simultaneously.
Everyone laughed again.
We ate cake 20 minutes later.
Grandma didn’t want a whole piece.
Then she ate half of mine.
She stayed for less than two hours.
Her body couldn’t manage any more.
When my uncle finally wheeled her to the garden gate, her face had turned pale again.
I walked beside her.
« Was it worth it? »
She looked at me as if I had asked the stupidest question of her life.
« Naturally. »
« That ride almost killed you. »
« At 101, almost anything will kill you. »
« My own. »
She took my hand.
« I didn’t want to sit at home just because it was difficult. »
I swallowed.
« You could have gotten sick. »
« I can get sick even in my own armchair. »
I had no answer to that.
She looked back at the garden from the car.
Lily sat in the grass, crushing birthday cake between her hands.
Grandma smiled.
« And. »
„Was?“
« That’s what I wanted. »
„Was?“
She showed signs of weakness.
« One of yours. »
I looked at my daughter.
Then I remembered the photo.
Me at four years old.
Grandma’s entrance step.
The dress she had made.
« I thought you wanted a picture of her on your step. »
« That’s what I want. »
« You just said that’s what you wanted. »
« I am allowed to want two things. »
Even at 101 years old, she was still negotiating.
We put her in the car.
Before the door closed, she called my name.
I bent down towards her.
« Finish the sleeve. »
I looked at the box.
« I’ll try it. »
« No. »
Her hand held mine more tightly.
« Don’t try it. Finish it. »
That was Grandma.
She drove away.
I stood in the street and cried until the car was gone.
Three days later, Mom and I went to Grandma’s.
She was exhausted from the celebration.
Not sick.
She slept for most of this week.
The sewing box came with me.
Even the unfinished dress.
I bought a beginner’s sewing kit.
It was humiliating.
I watched videos.
I called Mom.
Mom was somehow even worse than me.
« I thought Grandma had taught you. »
« She tried. »
« What happened? »
« I hated it. »
« Me too. »
Apparently, we came from a long line of women who benefited from a woman’s skills but never wanted to learn themselves.
Finally, my uncle found Grandma’s old sewing machine in a cupboard.
Grandma could no longer use them, but she could still criticize.
I brought her the dress.
She looked at my first attempt at the sleeve.
« This seam is terrible. »
« I know. »
« Open them again. »
« That took two hours. »
« Then you’ll be faster the second time. »
I glared at her.
She smiled.
I worked on this dress for six weeks.
Not every day.
Mostly after Lily had fallen asleep.
Sometimes only 20 minutes.
Sometimes until midnight.
I resewn the sleeve twice.
The collar three times.
One evening I was so frustrated that I almost put the whole dress back in the box and decided that « unfinished » was just sentimental.
Then I heard Grandma’s voice in my head.
Finish it.
So I did it.
When Lily was 13 months old, we took her to Grandma’s.
I dressed her in the cream-colored dress.
It was almost a perfect fit.
The hem was a bit long.
My sleeve wasn’t as neat as Grandma’s.
Not even close.
But it was secured.
We carried Lily to the entrance step.
To the same step as in the old photo next to Grandma’s armchair.
Grandma was already waiting in the doorway in her wheelchair.
Mom stood next to her, holding the old picture of me.
I sat Lily down.
She immediately tried to crawl away.
« Of course, » I said.
Mom laughed.
« Put something in front of her. »
Grandma said:
« Give her a button. »
« No. »
« A big one. »
« No. »
« You’re boring. »
In the end, Mark stood behind the camera and made silly noises.
Lily looked up for a moment.
Click.
We had done it.
Me with four people in a dress with yellow flowers.
Mom with two children in a light blue dress.
Lily, one year old, in a cream-colored dress with green leaves.
Three photos.
The same level.
The same woman behind the sewing work.
Grandma looked at the new picture on my phone for a long time.
Then she gave it back.
« Print it out. »
« I’ll do it. »
« People aren’t printing anything anymore. »
« I print things. »
« You have 8,000 pictures on this phone. »
« How do you know that? »
« You told me. »
Fair.
I printed it out that same afternoon.
Large.
I put it in a frame.
On the next visit, it was on the small table next to Grandma’s armchair.
My photo had been moved a little bit to the left.
Just enough room for both.
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