My grandmother was someone who never took no for an answer. She fought fiercely for her passions, knowing they mattered. She spent a year teaching kindergarten through eighth grade in a one-room schoolhouse in Owl’s Bend, Missouri; worked for 25 years at the Brooklyn Public library; and published more than 200 poems. I have always tried to follow in her footsteps and live up to the expectations I knew she had of me. When she passed away at 96, I was 21 years old, confused and scared, worried I would forget her. I knew I would remember her accomplishments; those accolades never disappear. I wanted to remember the love she showed her son, her daughter-in-law and my sister. What I have discovered is that I am allowed to be angry with the world for taking my grandmother away. I have also learned that while it is OK not to be OK, my grandmother would have wanted me to pick myself up again. Everyone has different ways to cope with loss and hardship. I read these words my grandmother wrote to me, and I know while the world may be full of ups and downs, it is a bright place that needs me to be a part of it. “Granddaughter Penina Hedya, dress in bones and flesh, leap for the candles of your journey.” Zikhronah livrakhah. May her memory be a blessing.
– Marisa Papell
We Are Resilient
The phone rings, voices fill the house
My grandmother is on the line
Seemingly less confused than usual
The phone is passed in my direction
Hello Grandma, I say
Hi Betty, she responds
That’s not my name
That’s not my name
That will never be my name
Is this how she remembers me
As some unidentified person
Instead of her granddaughter
The memories of good days fade
Like rain easing up after a storm
I remember my grandmother as happy and healthy
My father remembers his mother looking through a window
There reflections meet each other at the glass pane
Yearning to break free, but they stop short
Melting to the ground like snowflakes
I didn’t want the picture engraved in my father’s brain
I chose joy instead of pain, but was it the right decision
For her or for me
My grandmother didn’t remember herself
And I worry I won’t remember her either
She is now upstairs dancing with Miriam and her timbrels
Speaking to Abraham wondering why he smashed idols
Laughing with Isaac about the beauty of the world
These are her people, the children of Israel
She wrestled with G-d and
Her voice echos
Above the flickering light of the Shabbat candles
Louder than the noise of a groger
Stronger than the waves of the Nile
Marisa Papell, a recent graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, is fascinated by the interconnection between cooking and Judaism. Food has been a powerful tool in Marisa’s life, reminding her to enjoy the little things that bring her joy, hope and peace.
