Remembering
Aug. 29th, 2002 10:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m_cobwebYesterday would have been my paternal grandmother's 96th birthday. She died last October, peacefully in her sleep (which I know is the most anyone can ask for), albeit after some nasty medical crap with a feeding tube. I finally pegged this as the reason for some of my really neurotic behavior over the past few days. I am still processing her loss, and I think it's going to take a long time.
My grandmother was the only person in my childhood who I felt loved me for who I actually was, not who they were trying to turn me into. My grandfather died when I was 10 and I spent a lot of weekends with my grandmother after that. Admittedly, there were times in my early teens that I just wanted to stay home--but I am forever grateful now that I spent those weekends with her. Some of my best memories ever are spending twilight outside with her, watching the sun set over the little El Paso mountains and scribbling my poetry in my little blank book. The only really safe place I can think of from childhood is her house.
I look around my own apartment now and see things that belonged to my grandmother--china figurines, the "tea lady" whose covers the tea pot, linens--and they just look wrong there. But I need them near me, if only to remind me of that one solid core in my life for so many years.
My grandmother was the only person in my childhood who I felt loved me for who I actually was, not who they were trying to turn me into. My grandfather died when I was 10 and I spent a lot of weekends with my grandmother after that. Admittedly, there were times in my early teens that I just wanted to stay home--but I am forever grateful now that I spent those weekends with her. Some of my best memories ever are spending twilight outside with her, watching the sun set over the little El Paso mountains and scribbling my poetry in my little blank book. The only really safe place I can think of from childhood is her house.
I look around my own apartment now and see things that belonged to my grandmother--china figurines, the "tea lady" whose covers the tea pot, linens--and they just look wrong there. But I need them near me, if only to remind me of that one solid core in my life for so many years.