Nana
"Don't you ever forget how much I love you", she'd say grabbing my hand with her wrinkly, warm ones.
She had a way of grabbing my attention with those hands. I liked to play with the three fingers that had gone completely limp from her arthritis. I'd sit beside her as she read or talked to me and I'd pull those three fingers up and watch them drop down, over and over. Sometimes I'd even try and straighten them so that they lined up with the other two fingers. I had an obsession with making things straight. But like always, they'd drop right back down where they'd always been. She'd cup them around my face and look at me with those blue eyes brimming with emotion. I loved every second I got with my Nana.
I miss her today. It's amazing how profoundly a person can affect your life. She always had time to go deep with me. She didn't skirt issues or beat around the bush, but she told it to me straight. She was a wealthy woman who never had a lot of money. Nana enjoyed bologna and weak coffee like it was the best thing in the world. Her happiness was not defined by circumstance but by the ones who made her laugh and cry. The ones who were closest to her were blessed. I don't mean that word lightly like most people use it. I mean, we were fiercely loved and we were special, real deep inside that woman.
Playing with her hands was my way of making a memory of her. They'd always been that way and always would be. A little imperfection that made her human and real. I could always come back to them and they'd be the same - broken. I'm still convinced that she was an angel. She had the whitest hair you've ever seen like fluffy meringue on a lemon icebox pie. I think about her hands sometimes. I remember the potential depth of our humanity and the strength of a heart. Her heart was made of the strongest, sweetest stuff around, sticky, like molasses poured on hot biscuits on an Arkansas morning.
She had a way of grabbing my attention with those hands. I liked to play with the three fingers that had gone completely limp from her arthritis. I'd sit beside her as she read or talked to me and I'd pull those three fingers up and watch them drop down, over and over. Sometimes I'd even try and straighten them so that they lined up with the other two fingers. I had an obsession with making things straight. But like always, they'd drop right back down where they'd always been. She'd cup them around my face and look at me with those blue eyes brimming with emotion. I loved every second I got with my Nana.
I miss her today. It's amazing how profoundly a person can affect your life. She always had time to go deep with me. She didn't skirt issues or beat around the bush, but she told it to me straight. She was a wealthy woman who never had a lot of money. Nana enjoyed bologna and weak coffee like it was the best thing in the world. Her happiness was not defined by circumstance but by the ones who made her laugh and cry. The ones who were closest to her were blessed. I don't mean that word lightly like most people use it. I mean, we were fiercely loved and we were special, real deep inside that woman.
Playing with her hands was my way of making a memory of her. They'd always been that way and always would be. A little imperfection that made her human and real. I could always come back to them and they'd be the same - broken. I'm still convinced that she was an angel. She had the whitest hair you've ever seen like fluffy meringue on a lemon icebox pie. I think about her hands sometimes. I remember the potential depth of our humanity and the strength of a heart. Her heart was made of the strongest, sweetest stuff around, sticky, like molasses poured on hot biscuits on an Arkansas morning.
Lots of thoughts about Nana today. Joanna read her essay tonight at her literary magazine's fundraiser. So beautifully put.
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