The knitted blanket is a glorious expression of my grandmother's soul; it is the colours of her dreams woven in delicate and loving hands. She would sit in that old rocking chair, hands moving, brain at peace, and from those delicate fingers would come the blankets. As a child I saw her as a magician of sorts and we played long games as rainbow-ghosts with her creations.
And there she was, my grandmother, loud and beautiful, laughing as if she were a child. Her wrinkles were the map of her soul, made all the more intricate by the sweet paths she'd danced since her birth. I always felt that it was who she truly was, that joy, that sound that tickled everyone else inside until they smiled wide and true.
I can survive anything if I feel loved, even these pains that come to explode within, these silent hand grenades. With kindness I can make it, with compassion there is grace. And when you smile at me you are my heroine, my morphine, finer than any doctor can prescribe.
Grandmother tipped back her silver head and roared with laughter. Eric looked at her with surprise, the advert wasn't even funny. "Gran, what on earth are you laughing about now?" She turned her wizened head, and smiled.
"Oh, well, it was ridiculous! Did you see how 'happy' they all were?" Eric wasn't sure where the old girl was going with this one. Wasn't everyone happy in the adverts? No-one's going to buy a car if everyone looks like they just lost a pound and found a penny.
"Yeah, Gran, but you laughed like it was the best joke you ever heard! You're even crying!"
"Eric, tell me about a time you felt happy."
"When Terry came over for a playdate last week and we ate pizza, that was awesome." Gran nodded. Now how about when you opened your Christmas gifts. Compare them. Were you happy then?" Eric sighed, she was getting battier by the minute.
"'Course I was happy, it was Christmas wasn't it!"
"Think back to that moment when you looked at your pile of gifts and over at your sisters. In that moment was it the same kind of feeling you had when Terry came to play?" Eric frowned. He'd felt a little put out at the time, he'd thought Samantha had gotten the better deal. Come to think of it, didn't she always? Probably Mom had spent more money on her, that was probably why. But it wasn't good manners to whine, maybe then he'd get less next year.
"OK, Gran, there is a difference, but I like Christmas and I like presents, what's your point?" Gran sighed, perhaps Eric wasn't in the right mood for this lesson. But she'd tell him anyway.
"Eric, you bold, beautiful, wonderful boy. Good things feel good. When it doesn't feel good, there's something wrong. I don't know what you were feeling at Christmas, only you do. But bad feelings come from envy, jealousy, greed, emotions like that. We all have them, and they're useful. They let us know when we're on the wrong track." Eric smiled though his mind was already on his computer game, he had zombies to kill...
My grandmother was robust only a year ago. She would walk her labrador come rain or shine over the hill and around the neighbourhood patch of forest. She was never still, either baking, socializing or volunteering at the local Mom's and toddler group where she lead the sing-a-long. Sometimes she would gripe about the mother's gossiping during the nursery rhymes instead of joining in, but I could tell she loved it. Just being around all those little ones gave her such energy. Now the Alzheimer's is claiming her bit by bit. Sometimes she is there and sometimes not. I know the road that lies ahead of her and it's almost impossible to be stoic. I look into her deep brown wizened face and stroke back the wild grey hair that used to be so neat. In that second before her eyes rise to my face my breath is caught in my mouth, will she recognize me? Will I be her beloved granddaughter today or a frightening stranger?
My grandmother sits in her chair at the window. It is not the most comfortable chair in the house, it is wicker with a floral cushion that is none too thick. Perched there she observes the passers by and makes comments about whatever exciting thing she thinks they are off to do. She lives vicariously through these random strangers who will never know this sweet old girl. I watch her, face entranced, the morning light reflected off her tanned and wrinkled skin and the eyes that belie her eighty years. She has laughter lines from her gift for smiling easily, her personality is all there to read in those creases; she's no longer the blank page she was in her wedding pictures. Then her face takes on a look of delight, "A cup of tea m'dear, let's have tea." So we do, always made in a china pot, milk in a little jug, proper little cups like on an old movie. Then she shuffles over to the refrigerator and after some rummaging she brings out two chocolate eclairs.
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