November 11th. The day we honor and thank those who served our country and protect our freedom. My father was a veteran of WWII. He passed one year ago, and I honor both his service and his memory. November 11th is also the anniversary of my paternal grandmother’s passing. That was 38 years ago. I was just 21. I had plans to go away that weekend to the mountains of New Hampshire with my husband. Something, or maybe someone, made me change my mind about going. It just didn’t feel right. The next day, I received the call that Mémère had died.

Mémère suffered from Alzheimer’s and for years didn’t know who I was; something I often found difficult to grapple with. She’d been such a presence in my life, a big woman with a kind and gentle way. When I close my eyes and think about her, I can still recall the scent of her talc, the softness of her flesh, and the warmth of her embrace. At different times in my life we lived with her or she with us. She took care of us and we took care of her. I remember her eating a breakfast of burnt toast with orange marmalade, some prunes, and a cup of tea every morning, and the sight of her in her rocking chair, eyes closed, rosary beads pressed between her thumb and forefinger in prayer. And, I remember the dishes.

When I was a young teen, before the onset of Alzheimer’s, she came to live with us. Each night after dinner she’d beckon me to the kitchen to do the dishes. We had a dishwasher but using it was out of the question. She’d say, “God gave us two good hands to use.” And I did. But not without a lot of eye-rolling and dilly-dallying.

I’ve come to appreciate those moments standing at the sink. I can still see us in the galley kitchen. A window above the sink looks out onto the back yard and she’s standing over the soapy dishes. I’m standing to her right with a dishtowel in hand. She washed and I dried. Every once in a while I suggested using the dishwasher…again. She’d not have any of it. Supper after supper we stood together at the sink, sometimes in silence other times in conversation, all the time in love.

I find solace now in washing dishes by hand. Sometimes I rush through them, but frequently she joins me at the sink. As I plunge my hands into hot soapy water, I sense her presence. Time slows down a bit and serenity enters. When I think of her there, washing the dishes becomes a practice in mindfulness and in gratitude for the two good hands I have.

She had no materials possessions or money when she died, which was exactly the way she wanted it. What she did leave was far greater than money or things. She left a part of her that I will always carry with me. I often wonder if that was her plan all along as we were standing at the sink.

Happy trails…