A Moment's Greatness

Shannon LyonsMarch 17, 2013

A Moment’s Greatness

“Scoop, lift and drop,” she said. Her voice was smooth and melodious, like the lull of the sea and as she spoke, her words formed a pattern that was lucid and familiar for my five-year old mind. The stone of the garden wall was cold against my bare knees and I traced the moss in which lined the creases of the wall, feeling the damp tickle against my skin. Picking up a bright pink impatien flower, she began to loosen another patch of soil. I lifted the jar of fertilizer and shook it like a saltshaker into the small hollow of earth she’d created. “Perfect,” she said, smiling. The sun was growing warm on my back and I watched as it fell on the flowerbeds in luminous rays, making each pedal glow with a rose like complexion. “Your turn, Sha,” she said, handing me the crate of impatiens. “Scoop, lift and drop,” I said, carefully running through the motions she’d taught me. When I’d finished, she hugged me and ran her hand through the wild blond curls that spilled out from under my sunhat, attempting to smooth out the knots that were almost always present. Sitting there among the golden sunshine and pale summer sky, I felt that that moment was infinite, like nothing could interrupt or break me from that state of pure elation. However, with time and maturity came the responsibility of realism. No moment can surpass sixty seconds. No moment can go on forever, but if we allow ourselves to, we can find that some moment’s greatness is so abundant that it can fill the hollow spaces in life. It can retrieve the bliss of one’s heart, no matter how much time has past or how far they’ve gone. It was moments like these with my grandmother that helped to ease the pain in the hardship that would one day follow, the hardship in which consisted of times that, though difficult, were equally as altering as those that brought joy. That day in the garden, little did I know, would one day become a symbol of the light and beauty that my grandmother ignited in every little flower, every smile and every individual she encountered.

I lost my grandmother on January 4, 2013. While my grandmother had struggled with her diagnosis of Alzheimer’s for years previous to that day, the shock and sadness that her death brought was certainly not minimized in any way. She died of a bleed to the brain and though it was a scary and horrifying time, I thank god every day that it wasn’t the Alzheimer’s that killed her, that there was never a day in my life where I had to look my Grandmother, Nanny we called her, in the eyes and face her not remembering me. Nevertheless, the moment that I was informed of her death remains a shock to me- a sixty second period of intense loss and sudden change in everything. It was in that moment that I felt myself transcend in time. My mind, racing with pain and fright, was comforted by an image that had long since occurred- an image of rose colored light and soft laughter. It was that memory in which brought me peace and filled the hollow space that Nanny’s death had brought. It was the vision of her smile, the delusion of her presence there beside me on that garden wall that brought me comfort during a time that I don’t think I could have managed otherwise.

Looking back today, it is hard to determine which moment impacted my life the greatest- the sixty seconds of bliss in the garden or the sixty seconds of tragedy on that frigid January day. When I was five, I lacked the ability to recognize, to recognize how lucky I was, to recognize how blessed I was and to realize how fast time could pass. My childhood was a haven of safety and security in a world where time was measured by how many teeth you’d lost and friendship was based simply on who made you smile. I didn’t know that the people in my life would one day be gone. I didn’t know that God would one day steal back one of the greatest treasures he’d even given you. And so, it wasn’t until years later, on days like today, that I would become flooded with that appreciation. It wasn’t until after I’d lost my grandmother that I learned how important it is to be thankful for those in your life.

While some may say that a new perspective and a new appreciation is not significant enough to be life-changing, I am certain that I was impacted. I was influenced entirely as a person within both the moment in the garden with my Nanny and the moment that occurred many years later, when I’d lost her. Like a puzzle, everything has begun to fall together. The hundreds of memories I have stored and the thousands of unspoken thoughts I failed to express have arranged themselves in a pattern that like my grandmother’s voice is lucid and familiar within my fourteen year old mind. However, that is not to say that there aren’t days when I feel defeated- defeated by my grandmother’s death and robbed of the unique happiness she brought me. On those days, I am reminded of other moments, such as on the last day I saw my Nanny. She was wearing an emerald green cardigan and ruby red lipstick as always. Her jet black hair was swept behind her ear forming a perfect curl. Looking at her beauty, it was hard to believe her memory inside was fading, slowly crumbling and deteriorating away like burning ashes. Regardless of that, she never failed to continue to let me know how much she loved me. There never was a day, even at the peak of her illness, where she didn’t make me smile. On the last day I spoke to her, we were sitting at my kitchen table sipping ice teas and sharing stories. Even when she couldn’t remember how to use a phone, she could recollect and describe past times with perfection. It was always entertaining to hear of times that even my youthful memory could not recall. Somewhere in between all the story telling, there was a period of silence, when all that could be heard was the clink of the ice cubes in our glasses and my grandfather’s rhythmical hum as he read over the newspaper. It was then, in that significant moment, that my grandmother looked me in the eye with a confidence that seemed to refute her Alzheimer’s. “You know, you really are special,” she said. There was a sweetness in her voice that made me know that she meant what she said. I laughed and sipped my tea, feeling unsure of how to reply to something so genuine. “No, really,” she said. “You all are special, all thirteen of my grandchildren. I just love you all so much.” Staring into her dark blue eyes, I saw everything she was trying to tell me and more. Somewhere within her, somewhere beneath the Alzheimer’s, she was trying to give a message that she knew she would soon not be able to express. The ring of the doorbell broke us from that moment, those sixty seconds that, like all of my memories with her, felt so complete and true. I shook myself from the sudden intensity that’d fallen upon me and answered the door with a smile. Moments later, I was grabbing my jacket and waving my mother goodbye as I headed out the door. I ended the visit by giving a sincere hug to my grandmother and a short apology for not being able to stay longer.

I spent the rest of that day window shopping with my friends in Newburyport, dining at Not Your Average Joes and strolling the boardwalk, talking about boys and complaining about school. Same stuff as always. Same lazy Sunday routine. I did not know that that was the last time I would ever lay my eyes on my grandmother or hear her sweet voice or breathe the distinct, floral scent of the perfume she wore every single day. If I could turn back time, I would have slammed the door in my friend’s faces and spent the day with my grandmother, spent the day begging god not to take her away. At times when I feel like this, I force myself to remember the moment in the garden and the moment of Nanny’s death and reflecting back on them now, they seem to become one. Together, they remind me to appreciate everyone and everything wholeheartedly and not to dwell on the past. They provide me faith and renew the hope that I sometimes allow to become all too distant. I know that moving on is what my grandmother would have wanted and at first, I found that impossible. My family and I were engulfed by guilt and grief and pain. It felt like moving on was forgetting and forgetting was the last thing I wanted because if I forgot, then my sixty seconds would be up. My infinite sixty seconds in that garden, my limitless supply of light, would be gone and the memory would vanish just like my grandmother did. I couldn’t let that happen. So, in the days and the weeks that followed my grandmother’s death, I planted hope within myself and within my family. I promised myself I would fertilize that hope each and every day until it bloomed into something as beautiful as the impatiens in the garden had become. I know my grandmother would be proud of this new perspective of mine and from her seat in heaven; she would nurture it with the same love and light that she exuded here on earth. Today, I am stronger than ever before and I am more secure on the subject of death than I ever thought I could be. I have learned that every moment is beautiful, the good and the bad. We must invite every emotion, every imperfection and every moment that we are blessed with, into our hearts before we can become completely open. If we are lucky, we may find that some moments hold the greatness of a thousand days. Some moments can change our perspectives forever. Our time on earth may be limited, but there is certainly no restriction on how much we may love, how much we may give and how much we may learn. You never know how valuable a moment is, until it changes everything.