thoughts on linda (again)

I miss my grandma less everyday. But, I feel her loss more, too. Strange.

I do miss spending my days at her house. She’d kick my ass at WAR. I miss walking through the grapevine with her when I was little. Don’t eat the green grapes, she had said, they’re bitter. She’d pull my sticky, sweet, grape juice covered hand and lead me to a bunch of sweet, deep violet grapes.

I hate those grapes. Absolutely detest them. I always have. They had seeds and the skin was thick and bumpy. I ate them anyways because I felt like the coolest shit having picked them myself.

I’m not going to lie and say that she didn’t put the fear of God in me, though. I’ll be damned if she didn’t.  A fly swatter to the ass was always an option if we acted up. My sister likely has acute PTSD from it.

She didn’t smile a lot in the end. I think she was in a lot of pain. It was health issue after health issue those last few years. But when she did smile, she was with us, she was with family. People she loved. And, my God, was her smile beautiful.

I don’t go to grandma’s house anymore; it’s just grandaddy’s house now. I haven’t walked in that grapevine in years. The rose grandaddy gave me in her stead the night she died is still in a vase on my bedside table. It’s brown and wilted. Dead.

Mom sprays an old bottle of her perfume when she’s missing her a bit extra some days.

No, I don’t miss her as much, now. Two years time has helped with that. But hell if I don’t feel the loss of her more, knowing that I’ve started missing her less.

That didn’t make sense did it?

Screw you, this is my journal.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s