A LOVE STORY | THE NARRATIVE ARC

An Angel in Turquoise Blue

What my grandmother teaches me about love

The bird clock in my grandmother’s kitchen held a special kind of magic.

It hung still on the wall, above the ironing table, in the warm afternoon light. It was always springtime in that corner of the kitchen, even though the clock kept ticking softly, marking each passing hour with the coo of a different bird.

The red-flanked bluetail sang first, calling us to breakfast. By ten, the robin tweeted, followed by the sparrow, and finally, the iconic common cuckoo made its daily debut at midday.

This clock was more than just a timekeeper. It was a musical mirror to the way she would call for us.

“Cuckoo!” she’d sing out, her voice soft yet clear. It’s a sound that, even now, echoes with that same midday warmth inside of me.

Cuckoo! And I am reminded to come back to the heart.

You may not always know you are in the presence of an angel, but you can certainly feel it. Though sometimes, you may only really know it when that angel leaves its human form.

My grandmother was that kind of an angel.

She didn’t have white wings or an ever-flowing white robe. In fact, her favorite color was turquoise blue.

I can still picture her, donned in her matching turquoise shirt and pantsuit, as we all skipped through the cobblestone streets of Lisbon, hand in hand, arms waving to the sound of a song she would be humming.

As children, my brothers and I would eagerly anticipate these walks through the neighborhood. It was a yearly spectacle, a grand procession, as she announced our arrival to everyone. Word would spread like wildfire as she shared the news of our arrival.

“My grandchildren are here from America!” she would say.

She knew everyone from the baker to the mailman, to the man in the café who had a parakeet. Like magic, she would illuminate the spaces she touched, even if only in passing.

And as her faithful protégés, we would soak up all of her joy, already knowing it had no end. One of the main highlights I remember as a child was walking into a local bookstore called “Barata” and being allowed to choose a piece of stationary to buy. Indecisive as I am with trivial things like picking a pen, she would always allow me to take more than one.

Not that she was checking, but I used them all up until their last drop of ink.

For a 70-year-old woman, my grandmother knew how to play. It’s as though she had never forgotten how to. Play came naturally to her in the inexhaustible and effortless way it comes to a child. There was nothing tedious about it, and there was nowhere else she would rather be.

She would get down on the floor, immersing herself in our world of imagination. She was the master architect of our blanket-made forts, scavenging around the house to find as many blankets and sheets as possible, and carefully clipping their corners to chairs and table ends. Book stacks would fall with the weight of the heavier winter blankets, and clips would spring into the air as our little heads poked from under the sheets.

But she was endlessly patient and found the whole thing funny. Somewhere, fixed like glue inside of me, I can still hear that laughter. It was almost like an accidental cough, or maybe it was the laughter itself that produced a final cough.

She would crawl into our forts and play “Go-fish” with us for the fortieth time in one day. She would let us win, again, while we tried our best to let her win, wondering why she wasn’t that good at such a simple game.

Behind the kitchen door was another world. A closet door that opened to reveal hidden shelves lined with striped paper where our toys lay. Dollhouses and balls, playmobiles and cars. The smell of this particular closet was indescribable and yet instantly recognizable — a mixture of old wood, fabric, and a hint of a scent that was the essence of my grandmother’s house.

She had a way of making each person feel like the most important person in the world. One minute of her attention was worth thousands of hours because her attention was full.

Even while raising four children while her husband was fighting in a war, my grandmother carried a lightness of being that was both awe-inspiring and grounding.

She was a lighthouse for more people than I will ever know and never asked for anything in return. Her door was always open to those in need, including the poor men from the neighborhood who came knocking and left with their favorite sandwiches which they knew they could count on from her.

She knew everyone’s favorite dish and would have it waiting for them. Buttery rice with scrambled eggs, ice cream in the freezer, or a fully stocked old Kellog’s tin of Kit Kats and Maltesers.

Within the walls of my grandmother’s house, time seemed to stand still, while simultaneously moving to the rhythmic ticking of the many clocks that adorned the living room.

There was a big, tall clock in an antique, walnut frame, and a small half-moon clock. There were wristwatches in glass vitrines next to old ship models and glass bottles.

I would watch them all, wide-eyed and jet-lagged, peering from the flower-printed couch in the living room, where we would sometimes camp for fun.

I would lie awake during the twilight hours if I happened to wake up and find that my grandma had already left to join my grandpa in the next room.

Before falling asleep, she would read to us, caress us, and sing, always promising to stay the night. I wanted her all to myself. I didn’t want her to leave once I was asleep and join my grandpa in the next room. I wanted her comforting presence by my side the whole night.

“Grandma,” I asked her one night, “can you live until you’re 120?”

“Maybe not 120… I may not be around here for that long” she said.

“Okay, but 110? At least?” I negotiated.

“Yes, okay” she agreed, hoping this would soothe me to sleep.

But as the morning sun painted the sky with its golden hues, I would wake up to find an empty space beside me. She always rose earlier than everyone else, as early as the birds on her clock.

My grandma passed away a few years later, at dawn. As the first glimmers of daylight rose that morning, she did not, but the birds outside of her window flew together in a wave, carrying her essence with them.

After she died, I recalled that late-night conversation with a knot in my throat. Why hadn’t she been able to live a little longer? Maybe not 110, but at least into her 80s or 90s. I didn’t understand it. It all happened quite quickly.

But now it makes some sense. Or at least, I have given it some sense.

The clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the time passing, but there were so many of them, that the irrelevance of time was almost ironic. Which clock was telling the right time? Did such a thing even exist?

“Cuckoo!”

I’m reminded, with each passing bird. My grandma is always everywhere.

Not many people live until they are 120. Nor need they. Loss is part of our journey here.

But my grandmother didn’t teach me about loss with her passing. For me, her essence lingers in scattered birdsongs, reminding me that Love transcends time and space.

Through her, I learned that some souls come to this strange Earth to be nothing short of incandescent, lighting the way for those who are fortunate enough to cross their paths.

She taught me more about life in her everyday actions than any grand gesture ever could. She created Love in the quiet spaces; in the utterly mundane and simple moments of life.

Her presence in my life was a blessing, a gift that continues to unfold and reveal itself to me in countless ways. In remembering her, I am reminded of the beauty and power of Love. I am taught how to live more present in Love.

She urges me, now more than ever, to stand firm in that path. Never have I felt her more, in her deepest essence. Never have I realized so obviously why she came into my life, and why I am truly blessed that she did.

Also check out Marcia Abboud’s story about an improbable, TV-worthy meet-cute that turned into her great love story. I was hooked from the start!