She always wore bright pink lipstick
At least whenever I saw her
She would squeeze me tight and kiss me, either on the mouth or on the cheek
To say hello, goodbye, or if she just couldn’t help herself.
As she has gotten older, she remembers more of the past and less of the future
But to me she’s always present
See…when I spend time with her, it really doesn’t matter what we talk about
I want her to laugh, to feel good, to know that she’s loved
The content of her stories or mine is almost irrelevant
It’s enough just to sit beside her and watch gameshows or syndicated tv, help her set her alarm clock, go pick up a few things for her at the grocery store
My grandma was a teacher, but I always felt her first love was homemaking
She gardened with exuberance, cooked meals with creativity and whatever was on-hand.
She taught my cousins and I how to prepare the desserts to serve to the rest of the family. How to fix a nice salad. How to use what you have.
I remember the way she folded the kitchen towel and wiped down the counter just before she sat down with her coffee. Our reward for fixing a meal. We could sit together at the table, reading the paper, speaking like two girlfriends at the kitchen table, mugs of beverages in hand and answering my Grandpa from the other room.
She has a smaller place now. Less to keep track of. Less to organize.
It’s just her now. Grandpa is in heaven. Her dog had to live with another family.
But she’s still the same Grandma. She loves her pink lips. And I can still make her laugh.
Musings and Flow 