Tuesday, May 20, 2014
I miss you. I wish you were still here. I miss sitting at the round, wooden table in your dining room and seeing you, sitting with one leg tucked up underneath you, your other leg propped up and held close to your chest as you sip your diet Coke.
I can see the light from the coming in through the back window, muted by the heavy curtains and rosy as it picks up the color of the orange shag carpet.
But the warmth in the room doesn't come from the afternoon sun. Warm, accepting love found a home with you. Your willingness to listen to and value me, always warmed me from the inside out. I miss you.
If you were here, I would sit again at your table and pepper you with questions. You and I both know how you like pepper. You see, I've started writing. I like to do it and I like to think that some of that comes from you.
If you were here, I would ask you if you ever doubted yourself as a writer?
Did you ever feel like you were in over your head? Like you have no idea what you're doing and you write like a 1st grader?
Did you ever get so nervous about your writing that you had a stomach ache? Did you cry?
Were you ever so full of self doubt that you couldn't write anymore? Did you ever want to quit?
Did words ever fail you?
Oh Grandma, how I wish you were here and we were cuddled up around your table, eating homemade toast with extra crispy crust and lots of butter. I wish I could lean into you and tell you all my insecurities and whisper all my fears. You'd wipe my tears and calm my nerves, gently laying your smooth, wrinkled hand on mine, not needing the words you so artfully craft on paper, to ease my troubled heart.
I love you Grandma. I miss you.