Love comes to me in the memory of apartment 14A. When I was in elementary school, my two sisters and I regularly took the public bus to our grandparents’ house on the north side. We took the Jeffrey Express, which picked us up a block from our house and dropped us in front of the Art Institute downtown. From there, we transferred to the 151 and travelled the rest of the way to our Nana and Papa’s apartment. We got off at Goethe Street. Nana taught us that Goethe was a poet from the 18th century and the correct way to pronounce his name was “goe-tuh.”

When we got off the bus, we crossed the street and pushed through the revolving glass doors into the high-ceilinged, black marble lobby. All the doormen knew us. Charlie or Jack or Arnold stood behind a Calacatta marble podium with tiny black and white television screens on the wall behind him. On the screens were static-y images of the other building entrances; every once in a while a person would walk across the screen for an instant.

The doorman on duty was always friendly, greeting us with a big welcome. “Hello girls” he’d bellow, as he picked up the desk telephone and dialed up to Nana and Papa’s apartment. “Mrs. DeMaisberg,” he’d say, “the girls are here.” We could faintly hear Nana’s voice from the phone as the doorman lifted his chin and nodded us towards the south entrance while buzzing us in. 

One of us would push the up arrow on the elevator and we’d lean our ears into the two sets of doors, trying to guess which one would come first. Once inside the elevator, we shoved and shouldered our way to the lighted panel with the forty-one buttons. We each wanted to be the one to push 14A, the button that would take us to Nana and Papa’s apartment. 

Nana and Papa had lived in that apartment since before I was born. We grew up going there and knew the building intimately. We’d gotten into trouble several times for pushing all the buttons at the same time and tying up the elevator. But from this naughty behavior, my sisters and I had seen most of the tiny individual lobbies in the south tower of the building. 

All the lobbies were different — some very simple and clean, others wildly ornate, filled with art or flowers or photos. Some had colorful painted walls and doors, others were wallpapered or tiled. I remember having favorite lobbies. My sisters and I would talk about which ones we liked; what our lobby would look like if we lived in a building like this. 

The elevator to Nana and Papa’s apartment opened up to a tiny rectangular space with three doors — a front door, a side door into the kitchen, and a third door leading to the stairs and the garbage chute. Their doors were all matte black, and the walls had textured wallpaper that looked like straw. There was a short black cabinet with an empty stone bowl and a handful of masks from other countries decorating the wall across from the elevators. The front door had a big gold knocker beneath the tiny peephole.

The elevator made a slow hiccup before it landed and dinged at the fourteenth floor. As the elevator doors parted, the image of Nana and Papa’s big black door opening came into view. My sisters and I would get off the elevator at the same time that Nana stepped into the threshold of her front door, already hugging the air in preparation to welcome us into her arms and her home. She was as excited to see us as we were to see her. 

One by one, she’d take each of us into her arms for a squeeze. She’d smell our hair, kiss our foreheads and send us off behind her where we’d race into the kitchen. Nana wasn’t a cook, but she always had a jar of honey roasted Planters Peanuts and a container of carrot slices soaking in a square tupperware of ice cold water on the top shelf of her refrigerator. Nana also stocked diet A & W root beer, which she taught us to pour into a glass with a little ice and skim milk to make a “root beer float.”

As we rummaged through Nana’s fridge, she made her way back to her armchair in the big, open living room overlooking Lake Michigan. There was a long, low couch next to her armchair and three swiveling club chairs on the other side of the large coffee table. My sisters and I planted ourselves on the couch or the chairs as Nana, almost always smoking a True cigarette, asked us questions about school or swim team or brownies. 

Eventually, my sisters and I would make our way into the guest bedroom where we’d change into our bathing suits and robes (they lived in Nana and Papa’s guestroom closet). We’d wait at the front door for Nana to put out her cigarette and put on her shoes and then we’d all take the elevator up to the top floor of the building where the pool was. 

The 41st floor of the building housed the indoor pool and hot tub, a tiny gym, and men’s and women’s dressing rooms, each with a sauna. My sisters and I, having grown up in a rickety old Victorian house, thought these modern amenities, like the elevators, were truly miraculous. There were four large circle windows on the north wall of the poolroom and it was rich with the scent of chlorine. There was almost never anyone there. 

Nana would take a spot in one of the lounge chairs and smile and clap as my sisters and I romped, jumping back and forth from the pool to the hot tub and back again until our eyes burned. When we were done, Nana would hold out our robes for us and, shivering, barefoot and wet, we’d make our way back down to 14A.

Apartment 14A is home to hundreds of tiny memories — pressing the elevator button, “root beer floats,” the 41st floor pool, and Nana’s hugs. As I’ve grown older, I’ve wondered why these memories with Nana are so clear while so many others from my childhood have faded like photos in the sun. 

I have many more memories of Nana — the week I took care of her before she died, afternoons trying on her silk scarves and chunky jewelry, shopping for school clothes at I. Magnin and Bonwit Teller, going to Moon Palace in Chinatown for dinner…. 

What I remember most is that Nana was always so happy to see me and I was always so excited to see her! That sheer delight of being happy to see each other is one of the purest experiences of love I’ve ever known. I imagine that’s why so many of those memories stick while countless others have slowly disappeared. 

People say there’s nothing like a grandmother’s love and, in my experience, that’s true. My relationship with my grandmother gave me a sense of being loved that’s lived on in my memory for over fifty years. I didn’t appreciate the specialness of that relationship then, but I do now. I’m almost as old now as my Nana was when I was a girl and I fantasize about one day becoming a grandmother myself. If I get that chance, I hope I will give my grandchildren that special love that Nana gave me.

Write it Down in a Letter

About fifteen years ago, on the way home from teaching an evening yoga class, I heard an interview with Isabel Allende on the radio. At that time in my life I was going through a separation and I was desperate to create some kind of system that would help me make sense of the world. My main priority was being a good mother to my young daughter; I couldn’t afford to fall apart. I was hungry for guidance.

In the radio interview, Allende shared the how she managed the time following her only daughter Paula’s death. Paula was in her late twenties when she died from complications of porphyria, a disease that is rarely fatal. After Paula’s death, Allende turned to group of close women friends and started what she called a prayer circle. The idea, she said, was simply to witness each other. There wasn’t a focus on fixing or changing anyone, just to support each other by being there.

That very night, I emailed a handful of friends to share the idea and, wallah, my own prayer circle was born. Five friends and I met monthly for two hours and followed specific guidelines — listen, don’t advise, be willing to share. We didn’t interrupt each other to share a great idea about how to solve someone’s problems. We didn’t gossip. We just listened and shared. And it was a beautiful, wonderful thing.

Once, when I was feeling really desperate about the state of my life, I wrote Isabel Allende. I told her how times were hard, how I felt hopeless, how I’d started my own prayer circle. She wrote back and encouraged me on my journey. She signed of with, 

Your are at wonderful crossroad in your life and you have an open heart: many good things will come out of this, for you and your daughter.
Love,
Isabel Allende

I am at another crossroads now, in the transition time of letting go of the little daughter I so worried about all those years ago. After Isabel Allende’s daughter Paula died, she published the book Paula. The book is comprised of writings Allende created during the year that Paula was in a coma. Allende, not sure if her daughter could hear her or not; not sure whether she would live or not, writes to her to get through this painful transition filled with unknowns.

Several years after I started my prayer circle, Isabel Allende came to speak and my circle of girls went to see her. Completely star-struck and nervous to speak to this woman who had quietly become my guide and mentor, I approached Isabel Allende with my circle of friends at my side, and introduced myself, telling her that I was the one who had written her that letter to her and to thank her for her wisdom. She was gracious and let us all take a photo with her. 

Part of this transition I am in is honoring my daughter’s distance, her need to move away from me, to put my voice in the background and her voice in the foreground. My inclination is to keep advising my daughter, managing her and telling her ways to live her life. What I’ve learned (quite painfully) over the last few years, is that my daughter isn’t hearing me the way she used to and my nagging often turns into an argument.

A few weeks ago I woke up with a list of things I felt compelled to share with my daughter — thoughts about what she ought to pack for college, ideas for who she should invite to her graduation party, questions about how her college saving is coming along. I knew that if I brought up this litany of to-dos with my daughter first thing in the morning it would only lead to conflict so I decided to write her a letter.

My intention was never to share the letter but to simply get my worries out on the page so that I wouldn’t burden my daughter. I’ve written every day for fifteen days and my letters have turned from worries and lists to hopes and dreams as well as simple proclamations of love and unconditional support.  

When Isabel Allende was writing to her daughter during those long days of the unknown, there were things she wanted to share with her daughter — memories of their life together, tales of her ancestors, and the deep mother’s love she carried. There were also questions she had for her daughter stemming from a mother’s natural curiosity to know the secret parts of her children.

Isabel Allende’s daughter never awoke from the coma. The book Paula carries her memory. It is a beautiful testament to an amazing woman who died much too young. It is also a profound narrative of a mother’s love. 

When my daughter was little, when I first started my prayer circle, there were lots of concrete things I could do to help me feel connected; things that let me know I was taking care of her— reading a bedtime story, making a healthy dinner, holding her when she felt sad. These days my daughter feels mostly unreachable, and soon she’ll be living in a dorm in another state more than a thousand miles away. There are so many things I want to share with her, things I want her to know and understand, memories I want to relive.

The truth is I want to share all of these things because I want to feel closer to my daughter. These memories and to-do lists help me feel connected; they comfort me in this time of transition. Writing a letter was a stopgap that I thought would help me get through one anxiety-heavy morning, but I see it as much more now. 

Writing letters to my daughter is a way to honor this transition for myself, but also for her. I can share memories, declare my love, nag to my heart’s desire, and she can maintain the space and independence she so needs right now. I keep the letters to my daughter in a little notebook that I have no intention of sharing with her anytime soon. 

Maybe one day, if my daughter becomes a mother herself, and she experiences this transition I’m in now, I’ll let her know about the letter-a-day trick I used during her last summer at home. I’ll tell her how all the feelings she’s having are totally normal and that it might help to just write it down in a letter.