Farewell

Frances Catherine (Martin) Winbauer
December 5, 1920 - May 14, 2008

Dear Grandma,
I will not remember your frailty.
I will remember you cutting through fresh powder at Hickory Hill, your tracks making perfect "s"s in the new snow.  I will remember you sitting with Grandpa on a good bench day, laughing with friends and watching the other skiers come down the face.  I will remember your strength as you watched him leave us, and I will remember the way you began again anew when he was gone.  I will remember your adventurous spirit, the part of you that wanted to see more of the world while you had time to.
I will not remember you in a hospital bed.
I will remember you teaching me how to make a bed with hospital corners when I was ten, the sheets billowing as you shook them out over the mattress and your hands sure in their work and their lesson.  I will remember you cooking big family meals in your kitchen, with grandchildren, daughters, and sons-in-law swirling around you in a constant sea of activity.  I will remember you picking strawberries at Liebig's, where you left with as many wildflowers as berries. 

I will not remember you in a wheelchair.
I will remember your sporty cars, and the time you climbed on my bicycle in your driveway and took off pedaling around the yard just to prove to us all that you still could.  I will remember you wheeling into your 87th birthday party on a snazzy new red scooter, always fashionable no matter what your age.  I will remember you swimming laps with strong, sure strokes, but with your head out of the water because you didn't want to mess up your hair.

I will not remember your shortness of breath.
I will remember your laugh as you sat by your swimming pool with Mabel and Johnny and Grandpa.  Your toenails were painted bright red for summer, your arms and face tanned and freckled by the summer sun.  You swirled the ice in the cocktail in your hand, your sundress lifted on the breeze, and you laughed like a schoolgirl over something one of the guys has said.  You were radiant.

I will not remember your pain.
I will remember the joy in your eyes whenever I came to visit, and the delight you felt amongst your great grandchildren.  I will remember your heart, and the way you loved family and friends and gathered the details of their lives into great stories, each filed away in your mind for later retelling.  I will remember the way your Florida crew would stop by the porch to visit and hear the latest news, the way you stayed connected to people and the world even though your body was failing you.  I will remember that you cared, deeply, about the people in your life. 

I will not remember your arthritis.
I will remember your quilting, knitting, embroidery, pottery, and your lovely gardens.  I will remember that you believed in saving things that could be reused later on for something else and that you were never hesitant to try a new project or craft.  I will remember our shopping trips, during which I was meant to help you but I was really there because you were a cool person to hang out with.

I will not remember your emphysema.
I will remember you smelling the flowers in your garden.  I will remember your grace and your ability to put your best face forward when you were hurt or scared or tired.  I will remember your stubborn streak, your need to be independent and do things for yourself.  I will remember you playing peek-a-boo with Harry and Emma, and that you wanted to take Harry for a spin on your new scooter; your sense of fun never left you.

I will not remember your regrets or your mistakes.
I will try to remember what you learned from them: that even if you live for 87 years it is still not enough time to accomplish all that you hope to, to see all that you want to, or to visit all of the places you've dreamed of.  I will try to remember that it goes by too quickly and that it is never too late to start telling people you love them. 
I am so glad I knew you.  I will miss you terribly, and I will remember you lovingly.
Sara