For as long as I can remember, my Grandma from my dad’s side has always sent me a birthday card and a crisp $20 bill wrapped in carbon paper.
When I was old enough to write and construct sentences, my dad told me to write her a thank you letter. I happily obliged, and while I can’t recall exactly what 8-year-old Marissa said, I was thrilled to fold the letter, lick the envelope closed, stamp it, and place it in the mailbox for the mailman to take the next day.
Grandma lived with my Auntie and her family in California, and I always felt a bit jealous that I didn’t have a Grandma at home like all my friends did. The following week, I received a letter from her, and our pen-pal relationship blossomed.
With each written line, we grew closer.
Grandma wasn’t just a matriarch; she was also a skilled seamstress. Her hands, always moving, were a blur of activity, stitching, mending, and creating. Despite my inability to speak in her native tongue, her hands spoke a language of love and resilience, piecing together not just fabrics but the very lives of her children. Her dedication to her craft was not just a means of livelihood; it was an act of love, a way to provide for her family while instilling in them the values of hard work and creativity.
“Grandmothers are experienced mothers with a lot more patience.”
She passed away in 2009 at age 95. I kept the last letter she ever wrote to me before her health started to dwindle, and she asked why I stopped writing. I regret that it came to that, and I wish I had kept all my letters from her. But she’s with me daily, and I often think of her. I can only imagine the strength she carried, having to raise seven kids in the Philippines when her husband, my grandpa, died of a heart attack when my dad was only 13 years old.
In the next section, we feature a poem by Sylvia Lizama, titled “I Kannai-ña” which means Her Hands in CHamorro. As I read the poem, with each of Sylvia’s words resonating deeply, I fondly reflect on my grandmother. The poem speaks of the hands of a grandmother as symbols of strength, used to teach, pray, and hold together a family. Much like the hands described in the poem, her hands were not just tools for sewing – they were instruments of love, guidance, and unwavering strength. In her hands, threads intertwined, much like the stories and lessons she passed down.
These memories and the vivid imagery of Sylvia’s poem paint a picture of grandmothers everywhere who, with their hands, weave wisdom and love into our lives. Their hands may vary in appearance and craft, but they all share a common thread – the unyielding strength to nurture, teach, and love. As I cherish my grandmother’s memory, I realize that her legacy lives on, not just in my heart but in the very fabric of who I am.
This quote is what grandmothers truly represent. They bring the wisdom of experience and the gentleness of time to the task of nurturing the next generation. And as I look back on the time spent with my own grandmother, I see the truth in these words.
They bring the wisdom of experience and the gentleness of time to the task of nurturing the next generation. And as I look back on the time spent with my own grandmother, I see the truth in these words.
