(no subject)
I opened this window to make stupid petty complaints about moving home again.
Then my mom reminded me that Carol's lunch is tomorrow.
Carol is my Third Grandmother, basically. She worked with my mother for years, when Mom's idea of "working from home" was actually "drive down to Cincinnati several times a week." I used to sit on Carol's lap while she read to me. I knew exactly where the cookies were (the Ninja Turtle chocolate chip ones were the best). I was banging on her typewriter before I even knew words. Later on, Lisa and I would fight over who got to sit on her lap first.
She quilted me a book when I was a baby. It is incredible--it's all cloth and each page has a different skill--there's an alligator whose mouth unzips to reveal a pink tongue, a pair of stuffed fish that hook onto a pole, a baseball glove that you could lace and tie...it's really incredible. It lives in the fireproof bin with the things that are most special to me.
Then we moved away, and she retired, and I didn't get to see her for ten years or so. Last year, Mom and Lisa and I met her for lunch and we talked for hours about things--what we've been doing, old things and new things and silly things.
This year, Carol was diagnosed with cancer. For a while we thought something could be done, but I guess they tried all that could be tried. Tomorrow there's a lunch at the workplace she and Mom shared, basically to say good-bye. Mom's going--I just can't. I would spend the whole time crying in a corner, and that's now how I want Carol to remember me. I feel guilty for not wanting to go--but Mom made the point that Carol wouldn't want me to go if it would upset me. But then I realize that I am almost certainly never going to see her again.
Instead I'm going to write a letter. And it's not fair, because I have a degree that says I am good with words...and I have no words. How am I supposed to tell her good-bye?
Then my mom reminded me that Carol's lunch is tomorrow.
Carol is my Third Grandmother, basically. She worked with my mother for years, when Mom's idea of "working from home" was actually "drive down to Cincinnati several times a week." I used to sit on Carol's lap while she read to me. I knew exactly where the cookies were (the Ninja Turtle chocolate chip ones were the best). I was banging on her typewriter before I even knew words. Later on, Lisa and I would fight over who got to sit on her lap first.
She quilted me a book when I was a baby. It is incredible--it's all cloth and each page has a different skill--there's an alligator whose mouth unzips to reveal a pink tongue, a pair of stuffed fish that hook onto a pole, a baseball glove that you could lace and tie...it's really incredible. It lives in the fireproof bin with the things that are most special to me.
Then we moved away, and she retired, and I didn't get to see her for ten years or so. Last year, Mom and Lisa and I met her for lunch and we talked for hours about things--what we've been doing, old things and new things and silly things.
This year, Carol was diagnosed with cancer. For a while we thought something could be done, but I guess they tried all that could be tried. Tomorrow there's a lunch at the workplace she and Mom shared, basically to say good-bye. Mom's going--I just can't. I would spend the whole time crying in a corner, and that's now how I want Carol to remember me. I feel guilty for not wanting to go--but Mom made the point that Carol wouldn't want me to go if it would upset me. But then I realize that I am almost certainly never going to see her again.
Instead I'm going to write a letter. And it's not fair, because I have a degree that says I am good with words...and I have no words. How am I supposed to tell her good-bye?