Nana

My dad's mother we called Nana. She was a wonderful grandmother. She fed us peach ice cream and oranges cut in half with sugar heavily sprinkled on each side. She whispered to each one of us, privately, that we were her favorite grandchild. When we were older, she would slip us $20 bills, or her Bloomingdales credit card, when we went to visit her in New York City. She accepted us, supported us, encouraged us, and expected us to live up to her high opinions of us. I chose my college in Brooklyn mainly because that would put me very near her. I went to visit her one day, my freshman year, and she fell while I was in her apartment. I picked her up and noticed how thin and light she was. She died a few days later, in her sleep, and I was distraught. Now I am Nana to my granddaughter. I wanted to be Nana so that I could give Collette what my grandmother gave me. Not just sugary sweet oranges cut in half, but the feeling that I was special. The confidence of knowing that someone full of age and wisdom knew that I was talented, lovable, beautiful. The desire to live up to her expections that I would find my way to becoming who I was meant to be. She is part of me, and I am glad to give that to you, Collette.