In A Certain Light
I can see you sitting there. Your face all lit up. That mischevious look in your eye that you passed down to my sister and my daughter. You were a troublemaker. In the best kind of way. You loved me best. I know that is a fact. When I walked in a room your eyes changed and the corners of your mouth went up. You didn't put up with any monkey business. That's for sure. You'd always say, "Horsefeathers," if I tried to sell you a bid of goods. I didn't get a way with much. You put my hair in rollers. Made me cinnamon toast for breakfast. And goulash for dinner using that Franco American Spaghetti out of the can and a pound of ground beef. I can remember the pot you cooked it in. Aluminum and heavy with the real wood handle painted black. You signed all of my cards: All My Love, All My Life, GaGa. You let me dress the dog up in baby clothes and drag that poor dog around the neighborhood in my doll carriage. You yelled at me when I twirled the cord to that ugly beige wall telephone in the kitchen. When my conversation reached your fifteen minute limit you suddenly expected an important call and I had to get off. You bought us Atari so we could play pong like the rest of the kids in America. You kept me well-dressed and my Mother before me. No child of the Depression was going to let her loved ones walk around in rags. We were dressed to the nines. You worked through my Mother's childhood. You were a career woman before it was cool. You gave up your career to stay home with me so I didn't have to go to daycare while Mom worked and Daddy was away in the War. You taught me to read and write at the age of four. You took me to church and taught me Jesus Loves Me. You took me on roadtrips and let me by that basket of candy everytime we stopped at a Stuckey's. You didn't order a dinner plate when we dined out because my eyes were bigger than my stomache. You just ate what I didn't. You built a strong sense of family in me. You spoke of your loved ones with tender affection. Aunt Kate and Uncle Tug and your sister, Thelma. Your Daddy who was an old man by the time you came along. You loved them all. I felt like I knew them too even though they were long gone by the time I arrived on planet Earth. You taught me a love of gardening. When I see purple orchids or a peony bush in full bloom I mentally fall down on my knees and weep. It transports me back. I'm your little shadow and you go about your day with me trailing behind you. We do laundry and hang it on the line to dry. We weed and we water. We got to the market. We make dinner. We sit on the front porch. A lot. At the time that about drove me batty, but I'd give an arm and a leg to sit with you on the porch while you wondered who the guy in the green truck was that dared park in front of your house on a public street. We tried to simmer you down. It was a public street. He can park anywhere he wants. You were a feisty ole thing with your bright red lipstick. I can still remember how the point wore down as you liberally applied it. I loved you then. And I love you now. It wasn't perfect, but it never is. Looking back one has a tendency to see through rose colored glasses... But please know this: you were the best Grandmother. I respected you. And I loved you. And I appreciated you. I know that's all you truly wanted back. And I miss you. Especially today. On your birthday. Today the light was just right and I thought back and thanked God above for you. Helen Henrietta. My grandmother. My Gaga. Happy Birthday.
