I remember sitting on my grandmothers sofa, couldn’t have been more than three or four years old, watching her as she went to grab the broom to start sweeping the floor. As the sound of “The Price is Right” was playing in the background, I’d sit there and just observe everything Grandmama was doing. Shortly after she’d start her sweeping, she always did something that I didn’t quite understand at the time: she’d take a little water in a glass or cup, tip it over just slightly, and pour a little water out on the floor. Not too much, not too little. Enough to visibly see, yet too little to have to even wipe up. And just as quickly as she’d pour it out, she’d get right back to her sweeping. I never understood why she did it, nor did it ever cross my mind to ask her why she did it.
Fast forward a few years— I’m a teenager at this point, and I’m trying to navigate the new feelings and emotions that comes along with that stage of life, trying to stay afloat in the sea of dysfunction and chaos at home, and doing my best not to let any of that affect my performance in school. Grandmama would always call and talk to me about my day at school, tell us to make sure we locked those doors when we got in off the bus, and try her hardest to discern whether everything was alright at home. I never ever let on that anything was wrong because we’d been trained to keep everyone out of “our business” at home, even Grandmama. That was so difficult to do because every fiber of my heart trusted her, but I feared the consequences of saying too much and having her possibly call Mama and ask why the the hot water was turned off… or why we were using a space heater to try to dry our school clothes… or what the most recent fight was about… it was so much I wanted to unload, but I just couldn’t. Despite my choosing to remain tight-lipped, just hearing Grandmama on the other end of that phone was enough to make me feel secure. Loved. At ease, even if just for a moment. She always had that effect on those she loved. She was always our rock.
Let’s zoom all the way forward to just a few weeks ago— kids were finally down for their nap, and I stood in my foyer having the hardest time deciding whether I wanted to shut my eyes for a bit also, or maximize on the quiet time to get ahead on a few chores. I chose the chores, and went to grab my broom. I started sweeping, and as soon as I made the first sweep, the dust started dancing and twirling across the floor, and me and that broom danced and twirled with it, trying to catch every little rebellious piece that refused to go into the dust pan. Then, just like that, the memory of Grandmama pouring a little water on the floor came back to me. It hit me right then and there why she used to pour the water on the floor— to keep the dust down and make it easier to sweep up. So, proudly relishing the opportunity to imitate her even just a little bit, I went to the kitchen and got just a little bit of water to pour out. When I did, that rebellious dust that had been so hard to contain was instantly tamed and went right into the dust pan.
I smiled and laughed to myself a bit, but the humor was short-lived; a wave of longing and heaviness washed over me, and all I could do was just stand there and ache for Grandmama. I didn’t want her to be a memory that pops up… I want her to be here.
See, my whole life, Grandmama has always been here to “pour a little water out” when life got crazy and troubles started dancing like the dust. Her love was the “water” that brought everything together, making it easier to sweep the problems away and move on. But as I stood there that day, I felt the cold, hard permanence of her absence. I wish she was here now, because the dust in life is still dancing and seems like just when I think its going to settle, it keeps on blowing around. Even if I could just talk to her and hear her voice, that would be enough. But I can’t. I can’t.
I know without a doubt, however, that I’ll see her again one day down the road. These tears and longing won’t be called to mind— she’ll be in my arms again and I pray she can finally pour a little water on this bruised heart of mine. Always & forever your granddaughter,
B.M. Miller
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