Sometimes, you just need a moment to remember who you are… who you were…

I just got back from my grandparent’s. Their house hasn’t changed much–books are still piled all over, mixed with my grandmother’s knitting and writing projects, and Grandpa’s newspapers. The “willow” tree out front, where we cousins used to dress up and play “Little House on the Prairie” (I was Ma, ’cause I was the oldest. And my sister Laura was usually Laura, even though she was the youngest.) is larger now–we could no longer use the split in the trunk as a table. But there are still cats prowling around and apples in the orchard and swallow nests on the front porch.

Magic still lingers there.

My grandparents are getting old now. Late 70s with white hair and ill health. But Grandpa is already getting his snowmobile ready, at just the mention of an early winter. And Grandma has so many projects that I think she keeps to defend herself against death–she can’t go until it’s organized for her posterity.

I spent three days talking with my grandma about politics and religion, family and ancestors, art and poetry. We talked a lot about writing. I confessed that I still write when I can (although I don’t think she understood what fanfiction was).

Grandma writes–essays, short stories and poetry. It’s her poetry that I like the most.

PERSPECTIVES