“I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. “
-
Maya Angelou
……….

Part 1- Tangled

“Nani,” I would scream, tootsie-roll fists balled up in an innocent anger; the wires just would not untangle! I had tried every idea my little mind could conjure up ---looping the green wires in and out, in and out, pulling with all of my might, throwing them across the room--- nothing worked. The red and blue and green bulbs grinned atop their twisted, tangled mess: mocking me. Finally, I exploded into a toddler tantrum, fists-a-flyin’, screaming at the top of my porpoise lungs.

Then, a milk-and-honey voice would whisper conciliatory, and comforting, “Kaitlyn, sweetheart, come to me. No need to fuss.” It was my Nani, she lifted me into her awaiting arms and hush, hushed, waiting for my fits to die down, and I would quiet. To calm myself, I would focus my wandering eyes on the Christmas tree and breathe in its fresh fragrance of happiness, and holiday spirit.
“See here, child,” my Nani chided, “don’t treat my Christmas lights so roughly, we must put those on the tree you know. Come, and I will show you a gentler way to straighten them out, you must be patient!”
She placed my pudgy, baby-soft hands onto her old, callused ones and we worked together. Slowly, we would thread one wire through the mess and, ever so slowly, our Christmas lights were untangled. My cheeks, rosy with joy and pride, became even more dimpled as we hung our lights upon the tree.
Part 2- Luggage
“Darling,” Nani explained, “there has been a mistake.”
“What kinda mistake, Nani?” I asked, my eyes staring quizzically up at her calm features.
“Well, Uh… you see…” she stuttered, “Our luggage, from the airplane, has been lost.”
“Lost, Nani?”
“Yes, Kaitlyn. We will not be able to have the things that we packed anymore.”
“R-really, N-n-nani?” I sputtered, my eyes brimming with tears. All that occupied my mind was the recurring thought, my pink galoshes, my pink rain boots, my super duper awesome polka-dotted boots. Did this mean that I would never be able to wear them again?
For Christmas I had received the most perfect pair of galoshes my young eyes had ever set their sights on. They were tall and lean, shiny and pink with dots of green here and there, with a delicately curved toe. I WORSHIPPED those shoes, and now they were gone. I broke down as Nani, took my hand and led me out of the Atlanta airport. The dreary, rainy Georgian climate did nothing to improve my mood, and hindered my ability to think about anything except my boots.
“Oh, Nani,” I moaned.
“Now, now, my dear,” she cooed, “look on the bright side of things.”
“WHAT bright side?”
“Well, now you can’t stop me… from doing this!” and she jumped straight into a puddle of water in the middle of the pouring rain, drenching me from head to foot.
At first, I was hesitant, still wanting to stay my Eeyore self; then, I realized that I could not resist. When Nani saw me chasing after her, ready for revenge, she laughed, a bubbly, melodic sound that filled my heart.

“Here I come!!!” I giggled. How silly we must have looked: a grey-haired old lady and a 10-year-old girl splashing in puddles, in the rain, at the esteemed Atlanta Airport.
Part 3- The Rain

I think back on these memories as I walk, almost run down the hospital hallway, my heart beating thirty miles-per-hour. Unwanted thoughts swirl around my head. Will she be awake? Is she OK? How bad was the stroke? Will I have to say goodbye? The walls are a brilliant white and I smell the sterilized, hospital smell around me; I want to escape.

I have now reached her room, 289. My hand grasps the cold, metal doorknob and I tip toe in. She does not look good, the doctors say. Her legs won’t ever move again, the doctor’s say. I nod and nod, wishing they would go away, wishing for some time alone with her, with my Nani. We’ll leave you alone, now, to say your goodbyes.

I glance at the woman in the hospital bed before me, take in her bedraggled state. Her eyes droop, weighted down with the memories, the sights of a long life. Her skin is pale, and paper-thin: so thin, in fact, that I can see the blue veins running across her body. An IV is attached to her left arm and it is all I can do not to cry.

“Nani?” I utter, afraid to speak her name and not hear a reply.

“Katie? Kaitlyn, is that you?” a ragged voice answers.
“Nani!” I rush over to the bed and wrap my arms around her frail body, willing her to stay strong for just a little bit longer: for her to keep me strong. A single, shining tear lands on the white bedspread. I hold her hand, tracing the wrinkle lines, absorbing her calm composure in this troubling time. I lay down and we listen to the pitter-patter of rain on the tin roof of the hospital, talking in silence, hearing what we do not say.
I feel her love and long for the times when we untangled Christmas lights together, and frolicked in puddles. I have learned so much from her, I realize. There is no greater gift then the gift of love and the lesson she taught me: to make the most of life and not fret over little things. She is my hero, my inspiration, and I will carry her influence with me wherever I go: and be a better person for it.