Saturday night at Mammaw’s Saturday night, I left my grandmother’s house at 11 p.m.
I know. Wild night.
While other people may have been out having drinks, listening to live music or doing whatever people do on a Saturday night, I was sitting at my grandma’s house looking through her Dooney & Bourke purse collection, listening to poems she had written years ago and hearing stories about her and her sisters growing up and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
There was nothing particularly extraordinary about the night. We didn’t have plans. There wasn’t a special occasion. I just went to visit, and somewhere along the way, a simple visit turned into one of those nights I know I’ll remember for a very long time.
She pulled out poems she had written over the years and read them to me. We went through her purses, talking about which ones she liked and which ones I liked, and I ended up leaving with a couple of them. We talked about her childhood and her sisters and memories from a life that existed long before I was ever part of it.
At one point, we even worked out together.
She has been going to physical therapy and was excited to show me some of the exercises she has learned. So there we were, on a Saturday night, exercising in her living room while she showed me what she could do.
It was funny. It was ordinary and it was perfect.
The older I get, the more I realize how much of life happens in moments exactly like that. When we are younger, we tend to think memories are made during the big things. Vacations. Holidays. Birthdays. Weddings. Milestones.
But I’m starting to think the moments we end up missing the most are often the ones we didn’t realize were important while they were happening.
Sitting in your grandmother’s living room. Listening to a story you may have already heard before. Looking through old things. Laughing about something that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else.
Staying a little later than you planned.
There is something about getting older that changes the way you look at time. The people who seemed like they would always be there suddenly seem a little more precious. You notice the wrinkles on hands you’ve known your entire life. You realize the stories you’ve heard a hundred times are pieces of your own history. You start wanting to remember the sound of a voice, the way someone laughs, the things they always say.
And you realize that “one day” isn’t guaranteed.
My grandmother has been a constant source of love and reassurance throughout my life. There is something comforting about having someone who has known you through every version of yourself and loves you through all of them.
That night, she read me a poem she had written called “The Lost Letter.” It was about how nobody really writes letters anymore and it stuck with me.
Because maybe that is another thing we’ve lost somewhere along the way… the willingness to slow down.
We text instead of writing letters. We scroll while someone is talking. We say, “I’ll come see you soon,” because life is busy and there is always something else that needs to be done.
There will always be laundry. There will always be work. There will always be another email to answer, another errand to run, another reason that next weekend would be more convenient, but there will not always be another Saturday night at Mammaw’s.
So I went home and wrote her a letter. A real one by hand.
I told her how much I love her. How much I appreciate her. How thankful I am that she has been such a constant in my life because I don’t want to wait until someday to say the things that matter today.
If you are lucky enough to still have your grandparents, call them. Go sit with them. Ask them about their childhood. Ask about their parents. Ask them what they were like at your age. Let them tell you the story you’ve already heard 15 times and when they start telling it for the 16th time, listen anyway.
Put your phone down. Stay an extra hour. Look through the old pictures. Let Mammaw show you her purse collection. Do the physical therapy exercises in the living room. Write the letter because someday, you may give anything for one more completely ordinary Saturday night and I have a feeling those ordinary nights are the ones we’ll discover weren’t ordinary at all.
(Paige Gurgainers is a mom of three girls, digital journalist for Webster Parish Journal.)