Grandmother

August 15, 2008

This is a picture of my maternal grandparents.

I see my own face in my grandmother. Somehow, it makes me feel connected, grounded. Warm inside.

She died when I was eight years old. She was in Texas, and I was in Florida, still. Mom picked us up from school, and she was sad, and she told us that Grandma had gone to heaven.

I didn't know her well. It feels empty and desolate that I have few memories of her, all from a child's point of view. I didn't actually get to talk to her, like grownups talk. Mom has told me a lot about her, but it isn't the same as knowing it myself.

Knowing that there are parts of her in my own face soothes the grief a little.

But I still wonder about her, about what mattered to her, about what she loved of life, what she didn't love. I know she was a poet, but her few poems are lost to the world. She was a writer. She worked on a newsletter, and she wrote letters, a few of which I have tucked in a box in my closet.

Precious pieces of her, passed down to me through my own love of writing.

I miss her. I always will.