Behind the Puddle

Dear Little One,

One day, when you were nine years old, your mom sent me a TikTok video. It was a man talking about otters and how they sometimes find a favorite rock that they carry around in a little pocket of loose skin beneath their arm. According to the story, an otter might keep that special rock for a very long time.

Now, anyone who knows your grandma knows that I love rocks. I pick them up, admire their shapes and colors, and sometimes bring them home for no other reason than that I liked them. I don’t need a rock to be valuable or unusual to think it is worth keeping. Sometimes I just like the way it looks or feels in my hand.

Apparently, you had been paying attention to that part of me.

After watching the video, you came to a conclusion that made perfect sense to you. You told your mom that you thought Grandma would become an otter after she died because Grandma likes rocks.

Your mom, perhaps not entirely sure how to respond to that particular observation, sent me a message.

“She thinks grandma will be an otter after she dies because she likes rocks. What do I say to that?”

I didn’t see the video right away. A few days passed before I finally watched it and read your mom’s message. And when I did, I laughed. I laughed at the thought of you making that connection and at the image of myself swimming around as an otter with a favorite rock tucked safely into my little otter pocket.

I could just picture it.

But there was something about your observation that I wanted to keep, and it wasn’t only because it was funny.

You knew something about me. Something ordinary, something that might not seem important to anyone else. You knew Grandma liked rocks, and when you learned that otters liked rocks too, you connected the two. In your nine-year-old understanding of the world, that was enough to imagine a whole new possibility for Grandma.

I loved that.

I loved that you noticed something about me that wasn’t particularly remarkable. I loved that you remembered it. And I loved that you were comfortable enough with the idea of death to imagine that Grandma might simply go on being Grandma, only with fur, whiskers, and a convenient place to carry her favorite rock.

I don’t know what you will believe about life and death when you are older. Those are things you will have the opportunity to explore, question, and understand in your own way. But I hope you never lose the part of yourself that made that connection.

The part that notices little things about people. The part that remembers what someone loves. The part that can find something wonderful and funny in an ordinary piece of information.

I saved that video on my phone the night I finally watched it. Not because I needed to learn more about otters, although I must admit the rock pocket is a rather appealing feature. I saved it because someday I wanted us to watch it together and remember this little moment in our lives.

And someday, when you are reading this, perhaps you will laugh all over again.

Maybe you will remember saying it. Maybe you won’t. Either way, I want you to know that Grandma remembered.

And should you ever find yourself beside a stream, watching an otter roll and tumble through the water, I hope you’ll smile and think of me.

Not because I expect you to believe that I became an otter.

But because, for one lovely moment when you were nine years old, you imagined a world where Grandma could always have her favorite rock.

And you know what? That sounds like a pretty wonderful life to me.

Love,

Grandma