Even if you don’t do it right now… A lesson from Grandma

Photo by Quang Nguyen Vinh on Unsplash

“Even if you don’t do it right now, make sure you arrange them properly,” Mama told me gently as we stood at the sink, the dirty dishes still warm from lunch. We had always called her Mama and not Grandma. She moved confidently and gracefully, stacking the plates one by one and gathering the cutlery to one side. “There you go! Now you see. It’s tidy, even if they’re dirty.”

I didn’t realise it at the time, but she was teaching me through the simplest things. Ordinary moments that didn’t feel like lessons then, but they stayed. She showed me that even the smallest tasks deserve care, attention and patience. And now I understand. If you can’t look after the little things, how will you ever be ready for the bigger ones?

Mama was a remarkable blend of warmth, love, discipline, and wisdom. Her presence was a comforting blanket, wrapping us in a sense of security and love.

I still remember my early teenage years, especially the afternoons when a classmate of mine, yes, a boy, would come over to visit. With her watchful eyes and gentle presence, Mama would somehow always find a reason to be in the same room. Not hovering. Just there. And with that same calm smile, she’d say, “Vinia, if you get married, you might miss out on joining your parents overseas.” That was all it took. The energy would shift just enough for the boy to sense her message without needing it spelt out. “See you at school,” he’d say, politely excusing himself.

I knew she was protecting something. Maybe my future, my chance to join my parents abroad, rather than getting married in the Philippines, having kids, and everything that comes with it. Her protective nature was a constant reassurance, a shield against the uncertainties of life.

I always remember how she loved travelling, how she’d take the bus from our town to the next, looking quietly excited. She’d put on her headscarf and wait on the side of the road. Patiently. It was her way of taking a breather from her responsibilities, even just for a few hours, and enjoying her own company. It was her way of recharging herself and finding moments of peace amidst her busy life, caring for her grandchildren. A few hours without the grandchildren screaming, fighting or playing. That’s what children do. So, Mama needed that solitude as a form of self-care.

Now I understand. She was caring for herself in the only way she knew how. By being alone, not to escape us, but to return to herself, so she could be with us fully. If you can hear me, Mama, I love you now and forever.