Blogs » Lightsabers and Phasers » My Grandmother's Glass


The memory came rushing back like a fast, cool breeze. I could feel the tears ready to form. The stinging sensation flooded my eyes.

I had just finished eating and was rinsing my glass. I had to get back to work. I didn’t have time to fully wash and put away dishes. But there it was, a vision of my grandmother, as I slowly set my glass down on the edge of the sink.

She had just taken her glass that she always had by the left side of the kitchen sink, and filled it up with water. Her back was towards me, but I didn’t need to see her face to know it was her. She must have been 4’ 8”, and her hair was still black and curly. It was a memory from my younger years for sure because my grandmother hadn't colored her hair since my grandfather died when I was 13. She was wearing a light blue and white checkered “batita” with flowers. It’s what you would call a muumuu to sleep in, in Spanish.

My grandmother never bothered to buy bottled water. It was a constant ritual for her, especially before she went to bed, to drink a glass of water from the faucet. She had just begun to set her glass back down when I could feel myself slipping away. But I didn’t want to. I wanted it to last a few more seconds. I wanted her to turn around and give me a hug. I wanted her to pull out her rolling pin and ask me if I would like to help her make flour tortillas, even if it was for just one more time. I didn’t want to leave that kitchen. I didn’t want to leave that home where I spent half my childhood days in while my parents worked. Oh, the stories I could tell you of that home and the wonderful people that lived there. But the smooth surface of the counter had met the clear base of my glass. It was no longer 1990-whatever. It’s February 18, 2010. I am 22 again, and it’s been 10 days since my grandmother breathed her last. But, really, it’s been years since my grandmother really lived and held a rolling pin or drank from her glass. She may have lost the battle to Alzheimer’s and a frail body, but her spirit lives on.

Who knows, she could be working in the kitchen for Christ, helping to serve the table he has so graciously prepared before us. (Matthew 22:4)