I’ve sat here for awhile in the dark, wondering when my fingers would be compelled to tell a story all their own. After 50 songs playing through the computer, I’m still staring at a white page, with the curtains pulled back to watch the rain as it falls gently on the earth below. Rain, that’s easier to think about, the sense of renewal, washing away what was old or dirty – I wonder when that rain shower just for me will permeate through my life? Ah, when I allow it probably, another battle. Thank goodness for those wireless keyboards, makes for pacing and my inability to sit still a little bit easier. Not much, but hey it’s a start!
Oh yeah, where was I? Thinking, again...and again notice how that never seems to not exist? It really is weird, surely people aren’t suppose to think as much as I do? Maybe we all do? I mean, we live in a world full of stressors, and that sympathetic system in us creates a cause for us to problem-solve a way to manage, and deal with what this world bestows upon us. It’s kind of strange how I value the dark. Well, it’s not completely dark the light from the monitor does well to provide a nice light. I’m trying to keep my fingers busy as my really I want to rest my face in my hands and perhaps just sigh or wait, maybe tears might come? There is something about all the yesterdays I can’t quite calm myself down about, what is it? What are the triggers, what are the realities that send a surge of nervousness through my being? Ok, often not a noticeable thing, since I try hard to just walk away from what doesn’t “feel right” or when I don’t want to deal with that, I’m good at just walking away, yet am I creating a deeper, darker hole, where fear after fear sadness after sadness fill this place in my soul? Why couldn’t I possibly scream and all those yesterdays that hurt somehow be erased from my mind?
Crying is the scariest thing – I don’t think it’s because the lack of strength, I think it’s more of what it means. Sadness and I’m yet to believe I have anything to be sad about, everything should have been taken care of, you know with time. Then why is it, I still cower. Why is it, mostly I have a hard time making eye contact? Why is it, I have trouble being still and have the need to move around, as if to replace a “feeling?” Lots of stuff runs deep, but can it be rectified? Ok, my perspective, screw the simplicity of the moments. I’m talking about – forgetting, being done with what “they” did. I’m talking about hating them because they destroyed a relationship with my mother, I was fighting to hard to attain…..I really was. When I got to college, we talked more, we spent more time together, my daily visits to take her lunch and just chat before I went to work at 2. She would call when I didn’t show up to make sure everything was ok, and it was only if I stayed up late the night before and decided to take a nap at the dorm before heading to work. These people stole so many years, that it would be interesting if I could identify the reality of a moment, rather than the expectation. Striving to be so perfect, yet somehow perfection excluded anger, but it seemed I didn’t have control over that, it just came. I didn’t want to “talk” because talk didn’t rewind time, “talk” did not comfort all those places that needed something…so my fits of rage were what I resorted to, because it pushed people away, yet the very thing I cried out for, I fought, ironic.
You know, what I wonder most is if I’ll ever do it, if I’ll ever be that weak to say the hell with this world? There are moments I’m so close – then the berating words of selfishness that you read or hear – what else do you have left? Despite, how draining it can be working with these kids, I like it, I have a good time, perhaps because it’s a stage, and who I am….isn’t defined by the way I fight to live without fear or sadness. You know, I guess I could constantly run from one even to another, there is plenty to do, but why, not everyone is made to be a part of everything – others have time of enjoying moments alone, where often times mine resort to torture sessions, but I can’t do that to myself, spend my self searching for more ways to fill a hole that has been empty for so long. Honestly, sometimes when I think about those times, anger beings to rise up in me, and of course I shoot it down, because I remember that anger, I remember that anger I had and was not shy to hold it in. It was the only thing. That felt out of control, and now I realize how much I hurt my mom by it – constantly angry, never able to have a conversation because I was so mad yelling at her, or hitting her. If anything, I don’t want to be angry. Is it justified? After all these years? Are any of these feelings justified? Perhaps, that’s just another rhetorical question.
I will never have those years as a little girl back, to enjoy the moment growing up, my time there is done. My time for allowing the acceptance of a mother to radiate my life is over, the foundational part of my life, skewed, over, no longer exists. Here, I am 25 sitting in the dark pleading for a reality all my own, which encompass for once everything I desire. It’s not that “those” people have control, it’s I’m still missing, resembling one of this kids on the back of the milk cartoon. I’ve yet to be discovered, as I play out the role of living robotically, methodically, with little thought. Oh, a Master’s Degree? Ok, that’ll work. I have fought this entire world all my life – I have fought to be strong, I have to be brave – I have lived with anger being my closest friend – Now – where’s that usher that will lead me down the right path? These men have marred my life, and somehow took the part of usher, creating a world of havoc and isolation, now where’s that “fantasy” of brilliant colors, refreshing wind, and calmness that soothes your entire being? When will that be found?
Perhaps, that’s where my lack of hope rests. They took everything I had, things I never thought one could have, they took. A childhood, happiness – I mean I look at the innocence of children, the youthfulness of their playing, their language as silly as it can be, where was mine, where was my room for a loving mistake? I hid, I ran, I shielded myself from the world, and naturally something I’ve not grown out of either. What am I trying to protect? They’ve already took it, they can’t take it again. I know, but this is a new risk, a risk that involves acceptance of those feelings, a risk of walking away from trying to make everything “right.” I can’t, I know, but perhaps I can fulfill that phrase, “I died, trying.”
It seems I should have listened all those times people were trying to “talk” to me, but no I turned my back and got mad, I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to talk about it, I wanted to live in my shut down world, and they let me, they let me have that control of life eating away at me. Who’s to thank for that, I wonder? Now, the insecurities of feeling, because I chose to run all those times…I chose so many things, that it would seem I deserve to be where I’m at, I chose not to listen, I chose to be angry, I chose, I chose….as even today, I choose to cling tenaciously to minimal words, hoping the receiver will have ESP or something to save me the frustration and embarrassment of saying something stupid. Today, I chose this darkness (literally) because consistency can’t be a good bad thing? I brought it upon myself – maybe the idea is I deserve it? But who is deserving of this, someone who’s had to fight internally all the damn time, someone who’s had to say goodbye to a childhood, to a parent, and grandma. Grandma, I already miss her words! I have found myself even a couple of times during the course as I write this closing my eyes really tight, as to jolt these feelings and have them escape, but it doesn’t work, my eyes open, and I’m still surrounded by all the things that have broken me. So I turn the music up a little louder, as if it will quiet my own yelling deep down inside. It’s a nice thought, again another one.
For now, my silent prayer is one day. I’m done accomplishing, I’m doing striving for great things, I’m hurt – my life has been affected by the choices they made, and the choices I never got or listened to. Ok, I’m not the only one in this entire world who has been dealt this hand of cards, I know. But you know, their life isn’t affecting mine, my life is not affecting theirs. Their hurt whether as close as their next breath or as far belongs to them and them alone. Some have endured the consequences of their abusers – and some would use them as an example of “hope.” I dunno, I just call it luck. The power of positive thinking may have been their saving grace, and how can you lie to yourself in the midst of this cruel world we live in? I guess to humor someone, might be a reason to participate in such thinking, but I want that feeling of renewal. So, all they get is a couple of years probation, a slap on the rest and live the rest of their lives however they choose, and here I am, left with the effects of what they took from me, fighting and fighting, to maintain something, and I’m not even sure what that something is, but fighting. Perhaps, this is when I utter the words that have been trapped inside: “It’s not fair.”
Friday, July 2, 2004
Friday, April 23, 2004
One moment
Most days I don’t get it, wait, many of the days it feels as if the life I live is a dream. It doesn’t seem right. I’m existing but really unsure how or what for. Are we defined organisms created with a need to have purpose or is that just something we inherit, or rather one of those conditioned/learned patterned of behaviors?
Many times these past few weeks I’ve flirted with “that” idea. You know that “one;” The one followed by a coma. Not really the end, nor is it really the beginning of everything, but it’s away, a short pause until, who knows when or what. It could happen, I mean in an instant that’s all it takes, and so to avoid the plaguing thought I take on more things. More instances surface where I can hopefully fill the emptiness that resides; to replace the yearning with “something to do” instead of embracing it with a tear, a smile, or a laugh.
Who would have thought in a million years, her death (mom’s) would have created such a lasting effect? Who would have thought a time would come when I could define a life, with someone else in it? However, it’s not just a “someone” there’s lots of people I know, it’s the assuredness, the identity, the sense of belonging that has been stripped away. What can one do? It’s gone, and you can read every book there is, and it says something about not forming an identity through or with someone else, you are you. Yes, that’s right, but how could you not? Lives are centered on acceptance and my sphere of allowing that to happen is very limited.
Yet, more often than not, the sadness that comes isn’t because I’m wallowing in my self-pity, or have devoted a time to “think” about them, it’s when I take a step, or survey the world before me, I realize they are no longer part of it, and I feel guilty. Where does that come from? I’ve never felt that before? It comes from my understanding and willingness to accept their pain, it wasn’t minuscule, it was real, and it was as real as it will ever be, and yet for awhile I fought with them to fight, then did the “grown-up” thing and said they could go. Yet, even then what choice do I have, except that one. Yet, conflicted with the idea, I feel so much here, I fight so much here why not? Then, whatif there is something waiting, something waiting to be uncovered. Of course, the fear of the unknown always shows it’s little head, and yet I wish I could learn from it, instead I turn away, diving into something else, something more. How long can I do this?
My guess is “forever” until I prove I’m strong enough or is it, weak enough? Despite, the solemnity in that phrase my whole body just sighs. Here, I, along with many, begin a quest a quest that initially began way before we would have known. This journey leads us down paths of light and darkness, choices as our guide and sometimes just pure luck, or lack there of. Along, this weary road, we love and lose and somehow regain those steps rather quickly and walk steady on. Sometimes, for whatever reason we stop to look back from the place we once were and cast our eyes downward at our bare feet staring at the markings of the gruesome road we have traveled. As our glance flirts from ground to the distance we have walked away from, we try to turn around, we try to go back to “that day” to not have to “let go” to not have to “know” the hurt the pain of the moments that brought us to our knees. In our efforts of moving backward, we can’t, we’re stuck with a choice that we have to decide. What will it be? One can continue on the road and just hope the aches will diminish yet life brings about more pain, different pain, that it seems we are not equipped with handling.
Many times, I’ve chosen the just “wait here” time – creating a life as close to the moment of “then” as I can; to busy myself not too far ahead, and not too far behind, yet in that very middle where the ache of both worlds, breaks my heart. Steps ahead send a surge of panic as the words “I’m sorry” want to permeate through the darkness of those days. Steps backward, create a ripple of sadness I can’t explain. A loss, I guess. The reality of death and the visions that accompany that thought.
The road has been walked by many, carrying different weights, opportunities, hurts, pain – and yet there is a uniqueness to the road, it’s “yours” and yours alone. The imagery is rather interesting, paths lined up side by side, each having their own; clearly some have walked through the same patch of darkness while others went up and over, yet walked through those same dark miles down the road. The road beneath our feet solely ours as we begin to find that pace that creates a sense of comfort and hope. The search is endless and there are many more miles left in this “game.”
What can I do? Desperately, I want my mom to experience this life with me. To be proud of the successes that were gained, she deserved that much. I guess so much of the time, there is that guilt of being a rebellious teenager which may have been ok, but its not ok when you can’t have that time back, I keep thinking of all those stupid things I would tell her. Yet, I know she knew I didn’t mean them and was just angry period, but still, a chance, that’s all just a chance. It seems like I won’t let myself NOT believe, that it wasn’t her choice to die, yet when I think about it “if only” begins to parade around my thoughts. As far as I’m concerned Grandma cannot be dead, but I have this awful feeling, that this time, I may be wrong. I remember going to that funeral, I remember the Dr. looking at me, saying it’s going to be a few more days. I remember crying. I remember the nurse leading me out of the room so I could cry. Surely, that was a dream, and because she has cancer I just think she’s going to die too. Surely that’s what I mean. Then, why is it, the quilt she made stays unfolded out on the bed, I had put it away for later. Why am I drawn to see pictures of her, like I can’t go to Abilene and see her? Oh no, perhaps that day did happen, I hope my mind never catches on.
SO, it’s 11:00 at night. I’ve got a mound of papers demanding my attention to be reedited and corrected on the computer. Perhaps it can wait? But, I can’t sleep. That’s been my problem – the mere idea that I can’t fall asleep, or is it I’m not allowing myself to sleep? Why wouldn’t I? I know fear inhabits my soul, I know a strange sense of loss clings to the bottom of my heart. Yet, I know, there’s nothing I can do, and yet I want there to be something. I want there to be something that will ensure that I have tried everything I know to do, and it’s over, their life, the life I held onto inside, as I do so many other things.
I tried to type out a letter from my grandma to me, and I couldn’t do it. Again, I can’t let go. Goodbye to that life, hello one I don’t even want to acknowledge. Why can’t they choose who goes with them, that would be nice. What “good” thing awaits, I mean sure there may instances of “good” but overall, life is life we all die does it matter when? Ok, some of goals and ambitions, and I do, but they don’t motivate me to live, they motivate me to not be bored with the life I have.
I don’t mean to hurt this much, I don’t mean to cradle all those idle thoughts and feelings and embrace them tightly as if they are secret, but what’s what I do. I hold tightly because that increases frustration and it’s so much easier to be frustrated than to allow tears to show themselves. Why are tears such a scary thing? I dunno..that I don’t have an answer for, or analogy, or random words, I just don’t want to. I guess, for now, I remember those tears that came flooding my being when I walked over to grandma’s bed, and just as quick had to run out, literally run out, to rest my back against the wall and fall to the floor, because her body, was changing. Her hands icy cold. Hold it, she’s in a better place, but still, the reaction that I gave that day, startles me. I wept and notice, that didn’t change a thing. To have my grandpa run after me, and he touches me arm to signal me to stand up, and he repeats over and over “Mejia she’s going to be ok. She’s going to be ok.” It was difficult to be in that room, because the moment I would sit, tears would just come, unwelcome tears would flood my eyes and I would have to leave. It wasn’t a silent cry, it was a cry that had feeling that had emotion, and for the life of me I can’t believe that kind of crying can be good.
There I go again, back to me, of my sadness and my hurt. Selfish once again, and I’d have to say for the moment, yes. For the moment, my world is nothing like I want it to be, and sure sure I can go out and gather more things to make it complete, but it’s not the “things” that satisfaction will bring me, it’s those lives, it’s those lives that have left a part of me not so complete. Seriously, it has to be true, when people, you lost a part of you. That has to be true, you are complete, yet the things that made you complete are distorted, not as strong. Your being is left with trying to fill a hole – that can’t be filled or replaced, only nurtured and shared and that’s got to be the hardest part, who the hell cares of the people who have died? They are just that, dead.
So, as morning approaches and the night sky is not so dark, it’s time to wish again. It’s time to close my eyes, and hope that this dream isn’t as harsh when morning does come. That somewhere that strength will be found, and I can get by, another day. To find that contentment and worth in the things I do, and the laughter I bring, all this to hide behind that mask, that mash of disbelief, hurt, fear and anger. What’s another day? So again..
One more time, I wish…and all those days … I’ve found myself in 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004…and the ticking of the second hand, creates another moment, another moment as I battle internally with this life, with the idea of death, with the idea of reality knowing in a moment, just one, in can end.
Many times these past few weeks I’ve flirted with “that” idea. You know that “one;” The one followed by a coma. Not really the end, nor is it really the beginning of everything, but it’s away, a short pause until, who knows when or what. It could happen, I mean in an instant that’s all it takes, and so to avoid the plaguing thought I take on more things. More instances surface where I can hopefully fill the emptiness that resides; to replace the yearning with “something to do” instead of embracing it with a tear, a smile, or a laugh.
Who would have thought in a million years, her death (mom’s) would have created such a lasting effect? Who would have thought a time would come when I could define a life, with someone else in it? However, it’s not just a “someone” there’s lots of people I know, it’s the assuredness, the identity, the sense of belonging that has been stripped away. What can one do? It’s gone, and you can read every book there is, and it says something about not forming an identity through or with someone else, you are you. Yes, that’s right, but how could you not? Lives are centered on acceptance and my sphere of allowing that to happen is very limited.
Yet, more often than not, the sadness that comes isn’t because I’m wallowing in my self-pity, or have devoted a time to “think” about them, it’s when I take a step, or survey the world before me, I realize they are no longer part of it, and I feel guilty. Where does that come from? I’ve never felt that before? It comes from my understanding and willingness to accept their pain, it wasn’t minuscule, it was real, and it was as real as it will ever be, and yet for awhile I fought with them to fight, then did the “grown-up” thing and said they could go. Yet, even then what choice do I have, except that one. Yet, conflicted with the idea, I feel so much here, I fight so much here why not? Then, whatif there is something waiting, something waiting to be uncovered. Of course, the fear of the unknown always shows it’s little head, and yet I wish I could learn from it, instead I turn away, diving into something else, something more. How long can I do this?
My guess is “forever” until I prove I’m strong enough or is it, weak enough? Despite, the solemnity in that phrase my whole body just sighs. Here, I, along with many, begin a quest a quest that initially began way before we would have known. This journey leads us down paths of light and darkness, choices as our guide and sometimes just pure luck, or lack there of. Along, this weary road, we love and lose and somehow regain those steps rather quickly and walk steady on. Sometimes, for whatever reason we stop to look back from the place we once were and cast our eyes downward at our bare feet staring at the markings of the gruesome road we have traveled. As our glance flirts from ground to the distance we have walked away from, we try to turn around, we try to go back to “that day” to not have to “let go” to not have to “know” the hurt the pain of the moments that brought us to our knees. In our efforts of moving backward, we can’t, we’re stuck with a choice that we have to decide. What will it be? One can continue on the road and just hope the aches will diminish yet life brings about more pain, different pain, that it seems we are not equipped with handling.
Many times, I’ve chosen the just “wait here” time – creating a life as close to the moment of “then” as I can; to busy myself not too far ahead, and not too far behind, yet in that very middle where the ache of both worlds, breaks my heart. Steps ahead send a surge of panic as the words “I’m sorry” want to permeate through the darkness of those days. Steps backward, create a ripple of sadness I can’t explain. A loss, I guess. The reality of death and the visions that accompany that thought.
The road has been walked by many, carrying different weights, opportunities, hurts, pain – and yet there is a uniqueness to the road, it’s “yours” and yours alone. The imagery is rather interesting, paths lined up side by side, each having their own; clearly some have walked through the same patch of darkness while others went up and over, yet walked through those same dark miles down the road. The road beneath our feet solely ours as we begin to find that pace that creates a sense of comfort and hope. The search is endless and there are many more miles left in this “game.”
What can I do? Desperately, I want my mom to experience this life with me. To be proud of the successes that were gained, she deserved that much. I guess so much of the time, there is that guilt of being a rebellious teenager which may have been ok, but its not ok when you can’t have that time back, I keep thinking of all those stupid things I would tell her. Yet, I know she knew I didn’t mean them and was just angry period, but still, a chance, that’s all just a chance. It seems like I won’t let myself NOT believe, that it wasn’t her choice to die, yet when I think about it “if only” begins to parade around my thoughts. As far as I’m concerned Grandma cannot be dead, but I have this awful feeling, that this time, I may be wrong. I remember going to that funeral, I remember the Dr. looking at me, saying it’s going to be a few more days. I remember crying. I remember the nurse leading me out of the room so I could cry. Surely, that was a dream, and because she has cancer I just think she’s going to die too. Surely that’s what I mean. Then, why is it, the quilt she made stays unfolded out on the bed, I had put it away for later. Why am I drawn to see pictures of her, like I can’t go to Abilene and see her? Oh no, perhaps that day did happen, I hope my mind never catches on.
SO, it’s 11:00 at night. I’ve got a mound of papers demanding my attention to be reedited and corrected on the computer. Perhaps it can wait? But, I can’t sleep. That’s been my problem – the mere idea that I can’t fall asleep, or is it I’m not allowing myself to sleep? Why wouldn’t I? I know fear inhabits my soul, I know a strange sense of loss clings to the bottom of my heart. Yet, I know, there’s nothing I can do, and yet I want there to be something. I want there to be something that will ensure that I have tried everything I know to do, and it’s over, their life, the life I held onto inside, as I do so many other things.
I tried to type out a letter from my grandma to me, and I couldn’t do it. Again, I can’t let go. Goodbye to that life, hello one I don’t even want to acknowledge. Why can’t they choose who goes with them, that would be nice. What “good” thing awaits, I mean sure there may instances of “good” but overall, life is life we all die does it matter when? Ok, some of goals and ambitions, and I do, but they don’t motivate me to live, they motivate me to not be bored with the life I have.
I don’t mean to hurt this much, I don’t mean to cradle all those idle thoughts and feelings and embrace them tightly as if they are secret, but what’s what I do. I hold tightly because that increases frustration and it’s so much easier to be frustrated than to allow tears to show themselves. Why are tears such a scary thing? I dunno..that I don’t have an answer for, or analogy, or random words, I just don’t want to. I guess, for now, I remember those tears that came flooding my being when I walked over to grandma’s bed, and just as quick had to run out, literally run out, to rest my back against the wall and fall to the floor, because her body, was changing. Her hands icy cold. Hold it, she’s in a better place, but still, the reaction that I gave that day, startles me. I wept and notice, that didn’t change a thing. To have my grandpa run after me, and he touches me arm to signal me to stand up, and he repeats over and over “Mejia she’s going to be ok. She’s going to be ok.” It was difficult to be in that room, because the moment I would sit, tears would just come, unwelcome tears would flood my eyes and I would have to leave. It wasn’t a silent cry, it was a cry that had feeling that had emotion, and for the life of me I can’t believe that kind of crying can be good.
There I go again, back to me, of my sadness and my hurt. Selfish once again, and I’d have to say for the moment, yes. For the moment, my world is nothing like I want it to be, and sure sure I can go out and gather more things to make it complete, but it’s not the “things” that satisfaction will bring me, it’s those lives, it’s those lives that have left a part of me not so complete. Seriously, it has to be true, when people, you lost a part of you. That has to be true, you are complete, yet the things that made you complete are distorted, not as strong. Your being is left with trying to fill a hole – that can’t be filled or replaced, only nurtured and shared and that’s got to be the hardest part, who the hell cares of the people who have died? They are just that, dead.
So, as morning approaches and the night sky is not so dark, it’s time to wish again. It’s time to close my eyes, and hope that this dream isn’t as harsh when morning does come. That somewhere that strength will be found, and I can get by, another day. To find that contentment and worth in the things I do, and the laughter I bring, all this to hide behind that mask, that mash of disbelief, hurt, fear and anger. What’s another day? So again..
One more time, I wish…and all those days … I’ve found myself in 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004…and the ticking of the second hand, creates another moment, another moment as I battle internally with this life, with the idea of death, with the idea of reality knowing in a moment, just one, in can end.
Tuesday, March 2, 2004
Remembering Grandma
Of course, I tell myself that I can “do this” – I can say what’s on my heart and in my mind and the time comes and I literally shut down, everything becomes consuming because I think all the while I’m trying not to cry, and remembering, knowing hurts, not just a little, but a whole lot.
My grandma (and you may hear this again one day) spoiled me. From as long as I can remember is was mom and grandma everywhere we went. When I was having trouble in school and not listening, my reward on Friday was grandma would take me out to eat to McDonald’s and I remember her on some Friday’s cohersing me to make another choice. Sundays were my days at grandma’s while mom worked at a nursery in a church. We’d make tortillas and I’d get to make my hand and she would put butter on it or I would want quesadillas and I’d have a hand quesadilla. Growing up, she explored new things with me, we did many puzzles together and our favorite thing to do before school was play Skip-bo. In elementary school my mom would drop me off at grandma’s early in the morning and I’d have breakfast with grandma and Papo, play a few games of skip-bo or watch cartoons and papo would walk me to school while grandma finished getting ready for work. After school, papo would pick me up and we’d wait until it was time to pick up grandma from work. We spent lots of time together and she spoiled me rotten. Everyday from work I’d have a surprise – and at Christmas I’d always got extra from her, but I couldn’t open any of my presents when we had the family thing I had to wait until we got home not to “show” the other grandkids. They weren’t elaborate or massive, but they were things she knows I would enjoy. One year a cross necklace, and the next Mickey Mouse stuff and I dunno, I was the favorite and we spent so much time with them. I still remember before they remodeled their house having the breakfast bar with those stools and papo and me would sit there, and he would “race” me to eat since I would never eat much then.
On Saturday as the doctor reminded us that the end was coming near, I lost my right mind. I started sobbing, as I went to sit at the edge of her bed. She’s awake and I’m telling her I’m crying because I love her and thanked her being a fighter. Then my great-aunt comes up to me, and she says, “You’ll never know how much your grandma loved you. She was so proud of all the things you do and did. Everyday we would talk and she never failed to bring up your name. She loves you so much, Amy.” Well good grief, I don’t want to know that NOW…..she’s dying! But, I know….I know that she loves me a-lot. That I am certain of. There are so many little memories and that she was a constant in my life. Although we weren’t sharing secrets, but she showed me love in the smallest form. Even as of late, when I would see her and give her a hug when I walked in the door it was always followed with, “How’s my little girl?”
I’m sitting here and unlike my mom there are so many memories that we shared. Nothing extravagant but we shared them. She would always try to teach me to sew, and got me into cross-stitched a few times, but I guess my attention span didn’t allow for completion of that project. But, I’m sitting looking at this pillow she made me two years ago on my birthday and in her own handwriting she writes on the back “If you need a hug Hug me” with a tag that says “made with love by grandma” - my life has been filled with blankets, pillows, things after things, to have her a big part of my life all made with “love.”
I just got off the phone with an hour-long conversation with Ellen. She’s very intrusive, but because she knows she has to be that way with me, or you get “I’m fine, yeah, and uh huh” – we were talking about those years back we met, and how I was so not her friend – and I think it was the dishwasher incident that showed us that we could “get along.” She used regular soap instead of dishwashing soap, and yep, suds everywhere, it looked like it snowed outside, it was great! She asks really hard questions too, like whom are you allowing to be you friend? Then, she waits for an answer, and/or asks again. Then, she reiterates the same phrase, years later, when will you just let people care and/or when will you learn to just “be.” A good question, right? I figure if they need to stump someone on who wants to be a millionaire that would be a good question for them to use. I think I still miss that she doesn’t live near anymore, she’s a good reality check.
My grandma (and you may hear this again one day) spoiled me. From as long as I can remember is was mom and grandma everywhere we went. When I was having trouble in school and not listening, my reward on Friday was grandma would take me out to eat to McDonald’s and I remember her on some Friday’s cohersing me to make another choice. Sundays were my days at grandma’s while mom worked at a nursery in a church. We’d make tortillas and I’d get to make my hand and she would put butter on it or I would want quesadillas and I’d have a hand quesadilla. Growing up, she explored new things with me, we did many puzzles together and our favorite thing to do before school was play Skip-bo. In elementary school my mom would drop me off at grandma’s early in the morning and I’d have breakfast with grandma and Papo, play a few games of skip-bo or watch cartoons and papo would walk me to school while grandma finished getting ready for work. After school, papo would pick me up and we’d wait until it was time to pick up grandma from work. We spent lots of time together and she spoiled me rotten. Everyday from work I’d have a surprise – and at Christmas I’d always got extra from her, but I couldn’t open any of my presents when we had the family thing I had to wait until we got home not to “show” the other grandkids. They weren’t elaborate or massive, but they were things she knows I would enjoy. One year a cross necklace, and the next Mickey Mouse stuff and I dunno, I was the favorite and we spent so much time with them. I still remember before they remodeled their house having the breakfast bar with those stools and papo and me would sit there, and he would “race” me to eat since I would never eat much then.
On Saturday as the doctor reminded us that the end was coming near, I lost my right mind. I started sobbing, as I went to sit at the edge of her bed. She’s awake and I’m telling her I’m crying because I love her and thanked her being a fighter. Then my great-aunt comes up to me, and she says, “You’ll never know how much your grandma loved you. She was so proud of all the things you do and did. Everyday we would talk and she never failed to bring up your name. She loves you so much, Amy.” Well good grief, I don’t want to know that NOW…..she’s dying! But, I know….I know that she loves me a-lot. That I am certain of. There are so many little memories and that she was a constant in my life. Although we weren’t sharing secrets, but she showed me love in the smallest form. Even as of late, when I would see her and give her a hug when I walked in the door it was always followed with, “How’s my little girl?”
I’m sitting here and unlike my mom there are so many memories that we shared. Nothing extravagant but we shared them. She would always try to teach me to sew, and got me into cross-stitched a few times, but I guess my attention span didn’t allow for completion of that project. But, I’m sitting looking at this pillow she made me two years ago on my birthday and in her own handwriting she writes on the back “If you need a hug Hug me” with a tag that says “made with love by grandma” - my life has been filled with blankets, pillows, things after things, to have her a big part of my life all made with “love.”
I just got off the phone with an hour-long conversation with Ellen. She’s very intrusive, but because she knows she has to be that way with me, or you get “I’m fine, yeah, and uh huh” – we were talking about those years back we met, and how I was so not her friend – and I think it was the dishwasher incident that showed us that we could “get along.” She used regular soap instead of dishwashing soap, and yep, suds everywhere, it looked like it snowed outside, it was great! She asks really hard questions too, like whom are you allowing to be you friend? Then, she waits for an answer, and/or asks again. Then, she reiterates the same phrase, years later, when will you just let people care and/or when will you learn to just “be.” A good question, right? I figure if they need to stump someone on who wants to be a millionaire that would be a good question for them to use. I think I still miss that she doesn’t live near anymore, she’s a good reality check.
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