My sister and I were at Babushka’s house. We were playing on the computer. I was 7 years old. My sister wasn’t sharing the mouse so we started fighting. Babushka didn’t like the noise. My sister began pushing me; I fell off the chair. Then, Babushka yelled. She yelled so loudly, I didn’t know Babushka could yell like that. If she didn’t like the noise, why was she louder than us? Why was she screaming?
I went to visit her again a few years later. I remembered how she yelled at me, so I didn’t make noise. I played on the computer and shared it with my sister when she asked. Babushka got us ice cream and cajoled us off the screen. She told us stories of when Mama was little. It wasn’t really interesting; I pretended to listen. I wanted to play on the computer again.
I came back. This time, I was 13. I didn’t play on the computer as much. We looked through photo albums together. She showed me pictures of when Mama and my aunt were young. We tried to find similarities between the family members. Babushka whispered secrets of life to me. She told me her regrets. She told me who she missed most from the past. I listened and ate at least 3 ice creams a day. At home, we ate 3 ice creams a year.
Mama told me that Babushka was getting old. I should record her stories. I should write them down. When I came again a few months later, I asked Babushka about her life. She told me what happened when she was running away from the Nazis. She told me about the infection that almost killed her at 4 years old. Babushka wouldn’t show me the scar. I wanted to see it but I didn’t ask.
I wrote her story down in my little red notebook. I didn’t plan to do anything with it. I was trusting Mama. I couldn’t imagine Babushka not here. I still have the notebook somewhere, hidden away. Babushka stopped halfway through her life story. It was late and I had to fly out early. We promised each other we’d pick it up again. We never did. I used the red notebook for other things; notes, hopes, journal entries, sometimes business plans. In the back, somewhere scrawled in pencil, was her story. Her stories.
I kept coming back. It was quiet at her house, quite boring. Besides for her stories and the computer, there wasn’t much to do. I was used to 14 siblings back home. Everyone was always trying to be heard. As I got older, Babushka started a new ritual. A day or two before I’d leave, she’d take me into her bedroom. She’d open her top drawer. Buried underneath her t-shirts and polo tops, were wooden boxes. They were filled to the brim with Walmart jewelry.
She let me choose some jewelry. I took chunky, plastic necklaces with me. Fake turquoise bracelets. They were pretty. I tried not to lose them. I’d wear them and sometimes, I’d lose an earring or two. I still have rusting beads and cracked rings that I don’t wear. They were part of that Walmart jewelry collection.
Years later, Babushka let me peek at her good stuff. The real gold. It was hidden lower down. She said that one day, when I get older and when she dies, I could have some. I could have her mother’s gold.
I didn’t see Babushka for a long time. I stopped visiting. I had other places to travel to. I didn’t think about her stories or computer games or even the ice cream she gave me. From time to time, we spoke on the phone. I’d have to yell for her to hear me. She didn’t say much. She’d hang up by mistake and I’d forget about calling. I didn’t really think of her deeply. Sometimes, a little “I miss Babushka”. I didn’t know how much I could miss her one day.
Babushka got sick. She had caretakers come to her home, give her oxygen. Dress her. Clean her bedroom. One day, my aunt realized; Babushka only had Walmart jewelry left in her drawers. Someone had taken her good stuff. Her mother’s stuff. Her gold.
Babushka died. I knew she would die but I didn’t know at all. I could weave poems on the fallacy of time, and it would do no good. She was gone.
I didn’t go to her funeral. I didn’t know how to feel. I hadn’t been close with Babushka in so long. I didn’t want to think about the stories she told me. I didn’t want to regret not spending more time on her couch, listening. I didn’t want to wish for more ice cream or wish I had written more words in my little red notebook. I wanted to pretend that she was my Babushka when I was a kid and that was enough. I didn’t want to miss her.
Mama saved her Walmart jewelry in a plastic box. She put it in her closet behind piles of clothes. Mama said I could choose something. I didn’t recognize any of it. For a moment, I thought maybe it was the wrong box. How could I have forgotten? Maybe that’s a side effect of time. I took a few necklaces, a pair of earrings and put the rest back. I didn’t need more.
I started to put it on every day. I like my jewelry to match my outfits, my necklines, and somehow, Babushka’s jewelry always does. I kept wearing it and thinking about how I shouldn’t wear it all the time. I might lose it. I started having dreams about her. In one of them, Babushka was in my arms, dying. She was so skinny, paper thin. Like she had lost all the life inside. And then poof, she was gone. Babushka wasn't alive in my arms anymore.
I wanted to scream. I needed to cry so hard. I know Babushka wouldn’t have wanted me to; she never liked so much noise.
Thank you so much for reading. If this piece made you feel something, let me know. Click the heart or drop a comment ❤️
I used to share my writing with Babushka. She was my number one fan. After I finished writing this story, I dug up our old exchanges. She must have sent me 20 emails or so, repeating the same thing: “keep writing”. In a way, my weekly stories honor that wish. So I’ll keep writing.
Cheers to 39 weeks of words. ✨
I so identify with so much of your story, even many of the details. There are pieces of my identity that skipped a generation to reach me, from my grandmother straight down to who I am. In some ways those roots dig deeper, perhaps because their twisting complexities and confusions are less covered up by the traumas of youth.
Thanks for sharing!
Sounds like you got all of it from Babushka. The costume jewelry, and the gold.