Wednesday, April 29, 2015

I miss my grandmother. I spent a lot of years feeling guilty because I didn't get to see her often enough, and part of me looked forward to her eventual death, when I would be able to be free of that guilt.

Right now, though, I would love to be in her house, having a silly little liquer in a teeny liquer glass, and chatting. There's a lot about her I don't miss, but also so much I do.

She built a house beside ours when we moved to the countryside, converted stables. I would go over there and sit and talk to her and watch tv at an insanely loud volume. She never liked a hearing aid. I would go when things were too awful at home, and stay the night, and she would spoil me and put me to bed in the tiny room at the end of her own, with its porthole window. She would make me drop scones, fluffy light little pancakes that rose perfectly, with lemon curd. She gave me the recipe but I think she left something out, as mine are always doughy and solid, frustratingly.

I hate to think of her house stripped of all her art, it was like a little country gallery. Full of beautiful things and keepsakes, her patchwork curtains and photographs. Her fridge magnets.

I started thinking about her stock phrases (a queer shade of greeny grey!) and now I feel terribly sad. I don't know if it's because of her absence, or just that the thought of her triggered my general sadness and self pity. I suppose she was a huge link to a childhood that I'm more locked out of now she's gone. 


Ms. Moon said...

Well, she loved you. Of course you miss her.

jo(e) said...

That's a lovely memory. I can just picture the little room with the porthole window and the warm scones.

Mwa said...

I'm picturing you and her, in the little bedroom with the porthole. Gorgeous.