Holidays, a time where the smell of homemade pie fills the house and love fills your heart. But the pie doesn’t make itself and I don’t make pie.
Actually, no one in my family makes pie. You might be sitting at the dinner table, telling satirical stories with three generations of your family while Grandma serves her famous apple pie. Telling you how many apples it took her to make it; “Somewhere between 10 and 15” she might say. But my family is only two generations, my parents, who are probably the age of most of your grandparents, and well, me.
Growing up without grandparents is like mac-and-cheese without cheese -- it’s plain. No coming home to voice mails of Grandma's warm voice telling you about how she is planning a get together Saturday. No stories of Grandpa's recent golf outings or the cute waitress serving him in the diner. Nothing. Just Mom’s bland food cooking in the kitchen and Dad complaining about his long work day.
It sounds sad, but my parents worked hard to try to make me feel the love of two generations. It definitely wasn’t easy for them. They can’t give me the warmth of letters and gifts from Grandpa and Grandma on my birthday. It’s the thought that counts but there’s no thought when there’s no grandparent.
It’s hard to think about, honestly, watching media at times is even hard. Cringing at the smiles on people's faces from their grandpas' jokes. Wondering what would it would be like if I could just look into my grandparents' eyes just once. If I could ask questions about their childhood and learn about the world wars through their own stories. But instead I stare at photographs, drawings and letters left over from their lives discovering traces of my heroes. They’ll always mean a lot.
Even when you don’t meet people, they touch your heart in ways you can’t imagine. Their stories linger in my parents and they send signs when one should be told. Every day is lived as if Grandma is telling me to smile. Every step is walked as if Grandpa is telling me to never give up. My mom makes food as if Grandma is in the kitchen. But I would like to believe Grandma would be a much better cook.
But in all seriousness times are hard, there are only three people sitting around a table on the holidays. Things get repetitive when day in and day out everything is always with Mom and Dad. Making memories as a family is nice but I can’t help but think, how much stronger would the love be if there was another generation to share it with? How much cinnamon I would smell if Grandma was making pie? But most of all, how many holidays would I enjoy next to the fire telling funny stories with my heroes? I may never know exactly what these things would be like. But the visitations in my dreams tell me they’d be amazing.
