The Grandma I Miss

In the winter, the short grey days and long dark afternoons. The time just right for fires, for peeling apples and making savory stews. When the moon is high and floorboards cold I remember Grandma. I remember waking her up for midnight eye drops. She’d wake up from a sound sleep, sit on edge of the bed, hair all wispy white, eyes a sleepy sparkle blue, she’d lean her head back far, drip in quick, wipe the extra with a tissue. She’d hold my arm and stand up slow, thinned flannel gown round her frame, together we’d walk the hall to the commode, then back to bed, another goodnight kiss. “Shut out the light” she’d say. On winter nights like this I miss her most.

...because healing spreads

0306-From original small 3 x 5

The one I miss.  The one I’ll know more of one day, the young one in these pictures.  The one that was old when I loved her, but still so young. Who wrote and read and talked of times I never knew.  So interested in the world, she was.  In governments, in plots and poetry, and not so much in whether her stockings stayed up leg or not.  She who let her clothes wear out so she could afford – fixed income of nothing, to buy me and my sisters a dress now and then.  A flight to come see us.  A phone call to see how we were doing. Stamps for the letters she wrote to tell us how she was.  Groceries she bought and always shared.  Tight with what didn’t matter, leaving ample for what did.    I miss her light blue eyes of sparkle, light in hew…

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