conversation

Last night, I watched and listened as my husband spoke into the ear of his 97-year-old grandmother. In his limited -- and yet, perfect -- Spanish, he told her some of the sweetest words I've ever heard. That life was beautiful for him here in Austin; that he had time and made time to laugh and play with his sons, his rambunctious and inquisitive boys; that his house was nice and filled with love; that life was beautiful... and he thanked her for these gifts.

Her small body had assumed a fetal position and we were convinced she was in pain. Our small amount of time to stay with her... just to be with her, had finally come. Gone were the more familiar faces of those who live in Waco. Gone were the energetic voices of the children in our family. Just me and David, standing vigil with Granny as she lay in her hospital bed, all of us uncertain of the future.

This woman had helped in the raising (yes, raising) of David and his siblings. A maternal grandmother in the truest sense of the term, Granny was always nurturing and strong, feisty and sometimes mean in years gone by. These are his words, though he says these things with love and respect. He looks back and realizes he needed someone strong to stand up to him. He was as tall at 15 as he is now. Granny, though small in stature, was not so in will or personality. And she made no bones about any of it!

So last night, as we sat with her in the hospital and the TV played Spanish novelas, he thought it wise to convey to her his undying love, devotion and gratitude. For whatever tomorrow might bring, he was certain of what yesterday carried. I'll never forget the kindness that filled his words, the way she seemed to listen as he held her hands, and she held his. The way his love moved through words past time and space and memories to the present moment. A moment he knew he might never have again.