I’m curled up by our front window when my toddler approaches with worry in his eyes. I muster a smile for him as he touches my knee. “Aw, Mama,” he says, tilting his head and looking up at me through a furrowed brow. I don’t know how to explain my grief to him, so I tell him in words he can understand: I have a boo boo on my heart.
We had planned to take him to Build-A-Bear that weekend for a birthday gift. But plans change. Unexpectedly, grandmas die.
Considering the depressive state I am in, I find it rather fitting that it’s pouring rain in Southern California today, the gray sky offering its sympathy. My toddler, on the other hand, is not used to being stuck inside. He bounces off the walls while our family holds hands. He jumps off the couch, screaming, as we recount memories. He runs in circles as we sit staring numbly at walls.
As it turns out, there is no pause button on parenting.
So after some internal debate, my husband and I decide to follow through with our plans. And this is how I find myself crying in line at Build-a-Bear.
From top to bottom, the entire store is yellow. A giant 6-foot teddy bear stands erect at the front entrance, one arm permanently raised in a high-five. Music blares much too loudly. Tiny bodies run rampant. Polyester stuffing whirls around in machines, filling empty bears. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. I shouldn’t be here.
I dig into the crevices of my soul and paste on a smile. “Look, Miles! A Happy Birthday bear!” A staff member brings him a birthday crown and a large sticker. To my surprise, he allows both of these items to be placed on his body. He then spins around smiling at strangers, trying to get their attention, willing them to smile back. His excitement is palpable. Happiness makes its way through my veins and squeezes itself into my heart, right next to grief.
“Look at me!” I croon, snapping a photo. Glancing down at the screen, I see what a precious memory I’ve just captured. His eyes squeezed into little slits, a smile so wide that every single tooth is visible. His tiny hands clutch a bear; his knees bend into some crouched stance for no particular reason.
This is the moment where I would normally hit SHARE, select TEXT, and type in Grandma Stella.
Instead, my fingers hover idly. No tapping. No sharing. No texting.
Tears sting my eyes as I think of her. She adored children and especially Miles, her only great grandchild. She would have accompanied us everywhere had arthritis and age not taken over and limited her mobility. Sharing photos with her was a way to include her in our lives, to splash joy into her daily existence. She always wrote back with smiley faces, heart emojis, paragraphs of delight. To share with her was to bask in her love.
I was not prepared to lose this part of my life. I am not ready for this.
I disregard logic and send the photo to her phone number, along with the message: At Build-a-Bear for Miles! Standing under the fluorescent lights, I feel hollow. There is no reply, of course. I put my phone away.
By now, we have reached the front of the line. A soft-spoken woman walks us through something called a heart ceremony, in which you place a heart inside your bear before it is sewn up. Miles is too distracted to partake, so I do this part myself.
After carefully selecting a tiny red heart, I listen closely. The woman says, “Place this heart over your own, close your eyes, and make a wish.” I rub the heart between my fingers and place it against my chest. The wishes flow easily, like seeds off a dandelion. I wish for my grandma to know how much I loved her, to feel safe and unafraid, to be reunited with my grandpa and her loved ones.
I know this heart ceremony is designed for small children who believe in magic, hope, and teddy bears. I know it isn’t meant for me, but I’m flooded with a sense of comfort and meaning.
“Now seal it with a kiss,” I hear. “Whenever you’re ready...”
I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, but I seal it with a kiss anyway.
This is absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking. I’m so sorry for your loss, Allison.
Allison this is beautiful. “willing them to smile back”, I relate to that so much with my daughter. I especially love the title, it’s fitting and sweet. I’m sorry for your loss, friend.