My Mee-Maw died when I was seven.  Although we lived in different countries, me in Canada, her in the United States, she was always part of my life.  Summers from school were spent with her, and all of December she would come up to stay with my parents.  Even though it wasn’t true, I felt I spent more time with her than away.

 

All my young life, she had always said I was her favourite grandchild.  There was only one other grandchild, mind you, my cousin Billy.  But I was her favourite.  She said so.  She would whisper this to me, smiling and saying it was our secret.  I’d hug her and say she was my favourite grandmother.  I never did understand until much later that her name was actually Margaret, and that Mee-Maw was just another word for grandmother.

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She was like a friend to me when I had none.  I was shy, awkward; an only child without any real friends.  My Mee-Maw was that to me.  When she was in town, I loved coming home from school to her.  The apartment would smell of coffee, a substance she consumed all day.  Then there would be a treat waiting for me, my favorite being when she made apricot fried pies.  The handheld pie was so delicate it would fall apart all over my fingers, making them sticky and sweet.

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Every summer at her place, my favourite toy was a porcelain elephant.  It was magical, almost a foot high, with jewels and colourful painting on the body.  I didn’t know it at the time, but it was in fact an ashtray.  The elephant, while beautifully adorned, also had a saddle, the top of which was where the cigarette would sit, the side of which would hold long wooden matches.  I didn’t know and I didn’t care.  It was simply an enchanted elephant that went on fantastic adventures with me.

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Many times, I ended up playing with the elephant while the adults talked or drank.  I was an only child, and my cousin Billy, 5 years my senior, never came to these events, instead preferring to play with his own friends.  So I was left, ignoring the adults who in turn ignored me.

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But not Mee-Maw.  While I played quietly, she would look at me, smile, wave.  Sometimes she asked me to get her something, and when I returned from my task triumphant, she would give me a quick hug, patting my back three times, pat pat pat, letting me know how great I was.  Then she’d shoo shoo me away, back to my elephant.

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Her passing was my first brush with death, an idea I couldn’t understand.  The adults simply tried to ease me.  She’ll always be watching you; she’s in a better place; she’s at peace; she’s finally reunited with Joker, my grandfather and a man I had never met.  I tried to be happy for her, felt guilty because I wasn’t.  I just wanted Mee-Maw back.

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At one point, I overheard my father and his sister talking about Mee-Maw’s possessions, who would get what, that they would end up selling.  I didn’t quite understand everything that was being said, but like a sucker punch to the gut, I thought of my elephant.  What if I never saw it again, what if it got sold?

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I broke from my mother’s embrace and running over to my father, tugged on his hand.  “My elephant” I said, thinking this was all I needed to say.

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My father looked down at me, eyes sadder than I had ever seen.  “What sweetie?”

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“I need to get my elephant.  Please don’t sell him.”

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Before my father could respond my aunt quietly cut in.  “Billy has it.  Billy always loved that elephant, and your grandmother wanted him to have it.”

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“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” My dad said kneeling down to my height.  “Let Billy have the elephant.”

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I was devastated.  I was betrayed.  Tears spilled as I screamed.  My mother came to me, and I disappeared into her embrace, “It’s not fair.”  But the adults had decided, Billy got the elephant.

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A few years later in a second-hand store, I found another ashtray elephant.  My heart skipped.  It wasn’t the same, but close enough.  Slightly smaller, the jewels long since gone, a small chip on the right front foot.  But memories of Mee-Maw flooded my mind.  Without a second thought I brought my new treasure home.

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The next morning, I awoke to see my new elephant staring at me from my bedside table.  Once again, I burst into tears over the elephant that was lost.  My dad came into my room, worried when he heard me.  He hugged me and tried to sooth me, pat, pat, pat on my back, just like my Mee-Maw.

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“I miss her” I said through my tears.

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“I do too” he said, knowing exactly who I was talking about.

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I got rid of the ashtray elephant I had purchased that day.  I realized then that it wasn’t the elephant that was so special, but my Mee-Maw.  I finally understood death.