Gramma and I - Metaphor story

Gramma and I

“I feel soft, like I’m not at my full potential,” I said to myself, thinking I was alone. “I feel … doughy inside, and like no one would ever want me. And why does it have to be so hot in here? It feels like an oven! My skin feels sticky, too.” I shook my head at myself, downcast. “Whatever happened to all my potential? I felt like the most loved and sweetest thing on the earth not too long ago. And now, look at me; alone in the dark.”

I slipped into reverie, my melancholy acting as a slide into deeper, inner darkness. We had been in the kitchen, just the three of us; the little girl, her mother and I. Her mother had let her “help” and, as she had just turned five, the countertop was a mess with broken eggshells, flour on the floor, sticky spoons licked clean. The way the little girl had giggled was just the most delicious sound I had ever heard. She had such light in her eyes! They seemed to reflect not only the very definition of joy but the pink streamers themselves and the cheery “Happy Birthday” that draped the wall. I wished I could go back in time. As much as I had loved that moment, I would love it more if I had only another chance. Just one more chance.

And then I heard her. She spoke in a grandmotherly voice, but stern. If there was compassion behind her words, it might have been undetectable to anyone but me. But I could feel it in spite of what she said.

“Oh, wah, wah, wah… you and your complaining! I’ve been around many years, grandson, and I don’t know that I’ve ever heard such a soliloquy of bull!”

I was startled. I thought I had been alone. But come to think of it, I could feel the warmth of her embrace even as she spoke. But her words still stung. Soliloquy of bull? Ouch!

“Well…” was all I could get out before she started in again.

“’Well’ and two cents will get you a piece of butterscotch,” she interrupted. I frowned. “Look, no one likes being in the oven, but that’s how you come to reach your potential. You think there’s some other way? What could possibly be the way other than what is happening at this particular moment? And what, you’re the first to go through it?”

I knew she was right. I mean, I could sense what was going to have to happen when I was in the kitchen with them, just minutes before. I knew that being held by THE/MY/CHANGE little girl was the sweetest thing that could ever be, but that it could not last. And that even she would eventually be disappointed had I stayed the way I was, had I even been able to do so, had I even had the ability to make that choice. Still… this was so much worse than I had bargained for.

It seemed the grandmother could read my mind. Her tone shifted, sounding like a parent that had been a little too harsh before and, feeling that her earlier scolding words had softened their mark, was ready to deliver a teaching message.

“You don’t get it,” she chuckled, smiling. “You’re soft, yes. But this experience is making you what you need to be, son. If you don’t learn to enjoy it, I mean, truly see the value of the oven, you won’t be what you need to be for this little girl on her birthday. I’ve seen it before; the cakes that fall. You can’t imagine the disappointment you’ll experience if that happens.”

“But it’s so hard,” I ventured, almost to myself.

“Yes,” the grandmother replied. “It really is. I know; I feel it, too, in other ways. After all, getting thrown into a dishwasher is no picnic. But I am right here with you. It’s the only way you can see what you’re really made of.” She paused feeling my thoughts, my self-doubt dissolving like the powdered sugar I had seen simply melt into a mixture of cream cheese and butter. “Oh, sure, you know your ingredients, but you can’t see what you’re really made of, can’t really know your true potential, until you go through the heat you’re going through in this moment. There is no other way to be of the kind of service that you are meant to bring to the world, and to that little girl.”

“Well, do I have to actually enjoy it?” I asked.

“That’s probably not quite the right word, grandson,” she said hopefully, ignoring my hint of sarcasm. And then after pausing, she added, “Maybe ‘appreciate’ is better. You have to appreciate the moment you are in right now, in this very instant, as a snapshot of exactly where you are supposed to be. Exactly where you are supposed to be! Are you as good as you’ll ever be? As able to bring joy, as able to be appreciated? Oh, no! Your potential, when you reach it, will be one of such sweetness, of such warmth and smiling service… oh, you have no idea!” She chucked warmly. “But you can only get there by appreciating the process to get there. The cakes that fall… they are the ones that are unable to withstand the heat. They actually will someone to open the door before they are fully ready, just to get a second’s worth of respite, and it kills their potential. Most fallen cakes don’t even get frosted, they just get eaten straight from the pan; torn, not cut with a shiny knife with the reverence that should have been theirs to experience, had they just been able to appreciate the moment through its discomfort, even for its discomfort.”

I considered this. “So, if I understand you right, I have to be able to appreciate that I am somewhere 

between batter and a cake that can be frosted, even though this is hot and really uncomfortable?”

“That’s the recipe!” she said with a kind sparkle.

I sighed. I felt better, even though it still hurt, this baking process. “Thank you for the pep talk, Gramma Pan. I can tell you’ve been around a while, if you don’t mind me saying. You told me exactly what I needed to hear. This is exactly where I should be, right now.”

“You’re very welcome, Cake-Becoming!” she said as I felt her edges press into my corners. “And look, you have a visitor!”

Looking up, I could see the little girl, the little girl that I loved and that loved me, peering through the oven door as her mother spoke a warning not to touch it or even make too much noise. I smiled, a vanilla cake in the making. With happiness spreading inside me, filling me, I could see just past the little girl, her mother mixing what looked like the most delicious concoction of candied decorations to sprinkle on a birthday cake; a cake that would be done to perfection in due time, and that at the same time was perfect right Now.

The doorbell rang. Her mother said, “Monica, your guests are here!”

Monica bolted like a cat for the door, her pink dress laughing behind her as she ran. Smiling to myself I could hear around the corner a chorus of five year old effusion:

“Happy birthday, Monica!”