My grandmother, whom we called Oma, passed away last summer. She remains a sweet sweetness in my life. I think about her often- especially when I am in the kitchen. I wonder if I am like her- if there is a certain timbre to my voice that echoes hers; if my eyes have the same twinkle, if my love is of the same brand.
Oma, for being 90 years old, had one helluva grip. She didn't just hold my hand; she grasped it with passion and strength. And when I hugged her.... oh, she was my grandmother: Round, soft, and full of a singular love.
I am writing about her now because there is a woman whom I see regularly at church that has the same light and shape as Oma. I find myself staring at her throughout Mass, wishing she would just hug me. I realize, of course, that she isn't my Oma, but how I miss that embrace.
In turn, I think about my nephew and my future kids- and I love that they will have my mother, Oma's daughter, to hug and hold them tightly.