"The only gift is a portion of thyself."  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson



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This is one of those stories that flows like poetry. Karen has many
gifts of her own and I look forward to sharing more of this talented lady's work in the near future!




"The Gift"
by Karen C. Driscoll

My grandmother and I were the best of friends.  We always were, for as long as I can remember.  One of the things we liked best was talking for hours in her farmhouse kitchen.  She'd bake chocolate brownies with walnuts, my favorite, and we'd sit there eating and talking about everything and nothing.  I remember one afternoon in particular.  It would have been completely perfect, except for the fact that she was slowly dying from cancer, and we both knew it.  She asked me that day, out-of-the-blue, if I recalled a time when I was just a little girl and she and I had looked at the moon together.

"Do you remember how sad you were that Gramp and I had to go back to Massachusetts the next day?"  It seemed really important to her that I remember.  A fuzzy picture filled my mind.  "Sort of.  I think so." I replied, struggling to focus the memory.

She sighed and got a far-away, remembering sort of look in her
eyes.  "You know, I'll never forget that night.  You got so excited
when I explained that I could see the same moon in Massachusetts that you could see in Virginia.  It made you so much less sad.  And ever since then I've always thought of you every time I see the moon.  We made a deal, you and I, remember?"  The picture in my head became a little less blurry.  "Were we drinking grape juice?" I asked,  "Yes," Gram said smiling and nodding her head slowly, savoring the memory.  "We were."  And suddenly I remembered perfectly.

I was four years old.  My family and I lived in Virginia.  Because of
the distance we didn't see my grandparents more than once or twice a year.  It felt like lifetimes.  I was always thrilled when Gram and Gramp came to visit and devastated, the way only little children can be devastated, each time they had to leave.  The night before one visit's end my grandmother and I went outside to sit on the apartment stoop, drink grape juice, and look at the stars.  It was a beautiful, warm night, filled with the sound of crickets, and the blue light of the moon.  I sipped sweet purple grape juice from a tall Tupperware cup. The chewed-up rim felt rough on my lips.  I leaned into my grandmother's body and she put her arm around my shoulders. She knew I was sad.

"Hey!" she said, trying to cheer me up, "See the moon up there?"  I said I did, but I wasn't too interested.  Gram continued,
undaunted, "Well, did you know that that is the very same moon that is shining over Massachusetts right now, over our house, over the whole farm?  I could be looking at that same moon right now, if I were there."  I was becoming interested.  "Are you sure it's the same moon?" I was a little dubious.  She assured me it was.  The thought that we could both see the same thing at the same time, even if we were far apart, was an exciting and novel concept. "You know what?  When I go home, I'll look at the moon in Massachusetts and you can look at it down here. I'll think about you, and you can think about me, and it will almost be like we're together.  We'll be doing the same thing at the same time.  It can be our secret.  We'll think of each other whenever we see the moon, okay?"

It was a deal.  I looked at the moon and thought about her lot when I was a little.  It made me feel so much closer to her knowing she might be doing the same thing; looking at the moon and thinking about me. And then, I guess because I got older, I forgot.  Forgot about it, that is, until this particular afternoon, when she asked me if I remembered, and it all came back to me in such vivid detail.  My grandmother had given me the gift of connection to her not only when I was a lonely four-year old, but once again when I was a grown and married woman facing the loss of someone I dearly loved.

It wasn't long after this that my grandmother passed away.  It was my first experience with death.  When she died, we were living several hundred miles apart.  I felt so empty inside, like someone had reached in ripped out a big chunk of me.  I felt so far away from her, like somehow, impossibly, she was truly gone.  My greatest fear was that I would go back to Massachusetts for her funeral and find the same emptiness there.  I was terrified that I would find her gone from the places we had loved together.  Afraid that I would find her gone from my heart, even in all the places that linked her most strongly to me.  "Please God, please," I prayed. "I know you've taken her to be home with You, but please help me stop feeling so empty.  I just want a small piece of her to fill this hole in my heart."

It poured rain the entire trip back for her service.  For seven
hours, I watched the rain beat against the windshield.  The swish of the wipers sounded tauntingly like "She's gone.  She's gone.  She's gone." over and over again.  The whole way I dreaded the emptiness I was sure I would find there.  When we arrived, even though it was dark and wet, I needed to just get out of the car and walk.  My fear was going to suffocate me.  I had to face it.  I had to stop covering my heart with my hands, and peek through, like a frightened child facing a monster, and just accept what I saw. And incredibly, what I saw, as I stood in a field of rain-wet grass, took a deep breath and opened my eyes, finally ready to accept the emptiness, was a clear September sky and the face of a full moon filling me, filling my heart, with its pale and silvery light.

A gift three-times given.  A gift I will never forget.


Karen C. Driscoll  copyright 2002
KMHBRDriscoll@hotmail.com

Karen lives with her husband and four children in Connecticut.  She is currently a full-time stay-at-home mother who enjoys writing,
reading and gardening. To read her beautiful story "The Servant",
click here: http://www.2theheart.com/march27_02


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Michigan Bulb Company is now online with 2Theheart! Our newest
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The Letter Box:



THANKS Diane and Karen! Also, to everyone who has sent in similar letters, my heart is full - thank you!


Susan,
I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.  I am so glad you will be able to continue with 2theheart even if in a different
fashion.
Diane Pitts



Dear Susan,
I will miss starting my week with 2TheHeart, but I am happy to see you making more time for your writing. I joined 2theheart over 2
years ago to read more of your stories and they seem to be getting less and less frequent. Four days a week of 2theheart will still keep my life full, but don't go less than that!!!!!  LOL
Love, Karen


Chuck,
Yep... this surely does sound like my old friend Chuck.  I would
expect no less from sweet memories of his father in the days when parenting seemed to have conjured up close ties for a lifetime.  You played the part of memories not forgotten and found a way to honor your dad's life forever and a day.  Keep your fly dry and your writing alive! We all pray that you might someday sit atop that
precious rock with dad, in the not too near future, that is.
Luv.........Kath



Dear Chuck Dishno,
I lost my father two years ago this week and I really needed to read your story "Pop and His Rock." My dad loved to fish. Your story seemed to be meant for me and brought me a lot of comfort in a week that is very hard for me. Thank you.
God bless,
Heidi Schaeffer


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