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And we'll be jolly friends forevermore.

Granny had some glamour days. I liked to study a photo of her in her bedroom. She sported luscious, dark pin curls and fancy painted brows. Then I would turn to see myself in her gold framed mirror. Surrounded by blinding lights, I was pale and so were my eyes. It's better for puttin' on make up, she would explain. That's how they did it in Hollywood, see. In an effort to understand her world, I played with the fashion paper dolls she kept in the drawer formerly reserved for rouge and eye liner. Her smiles were rare but this seemed to please her.

Under a mystical spell, I find myself inhabited by the spirit of Granny. Her frown momentarily belongs to me and it's burden is tragic. Woeful but introspective. A tainted perspective. Her momma wasn't careful or diligent or delighted with her. Promise betrayed her. Passion was a trap. She was cursed and not blessed. Nevertheless, she must have had a Midas touch because she addressed all my birthday cards:

"To my golden girl..."


She loved her a baby but her lullabies were haunting. She could put us to tears and the baby's off to sleep. I was proud to share a couple of mine with her.

My mother would say, "You worry too much. You'll worry yourself to death over that boy."

And Granny would rescue me from my ignorant indignance, "Well, isn't that what she's s'posed to do?"

Unaware of the luxury she was providing, I continued fretting over missed naps and balanced diets. With ten failed pregnancies under her belt, perhaps she found a temporal peace in the sharp contrast of my ordinary.

So, I don't mind when she happens upon my days, stirring about in my essence and peering through my eyes. And, as the years go by, I don't notice so much anymore but I pause so she knows it's safe. I'm accustomed to Her in Me. We fear the same demons but now Glory shines in her darkest places. A glimpse of her scars reveals God's good work in her, who loved Him with simple faith.

He wipes away each tear from her eyes until death and mourning and crying and sorrow are all over and

she is Golden.



Comments

  1. Beautiful, I never met my grandmother (she died before i ever met her, or my dad) but everyone tells me i am the exact replica of her.I like to think it helps her to, in a sense, live on.

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