My grandmother is the type of woman who, on your birthday, calls you while at work/school/etc. so she can just leave a message wishing you birthday wishes. She always says it's because she wants to wish you Happy Birthday first. But I've long suspected it's because she doesn't really want to talk.
She's a woman who has impeccable taste in jewelry. And even as a child, let me raid her costume jewelry box, and take home the pieces I liked the most. I collected pins and she always bought me a pin. I still have a few today, but not as many as I'd like. I know my mom took many, some were lost, and some are probably spread in nooks in crannies throughout forgotten boxes.
She hates telling stories about growing up. Once, at a funeral, her best friend from childhood was telling stories about their teenage ages years, growing up in Lawrenceville, meeting their husbands. And my grandmother got so mad she almost left the room. I wish I could hear more stories about the younger version of her. The woman she was before I was part of her life.
I don't call her often. I should. But I don't. Because I get caught up in the busy of my life. Become too tired too soon so early in the evening. Or I just plain forget a phone might be the difference between a good day and a bad day.
So I called her today and talked to her for longer than we have in months. She wanted to have me over for dinner tomorrow, but my work schedule means I'm rarely free on Monday nights.
I am making a pledge to all her more often. And if I put it in writing, it all becomes much more real.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment