My Thoughts On Some Of My Grandmother’s Memories (Part Three)

Understanding her came later . . . much later, as in “well after the last time I saw her alive” later.

The last time I saw her alive I had stopped by her house on my way across country, and she looked . . . “bad” doesn’t even do it justice, but as bad as she looked, the state of the grass around the house was worse.  It was waist-high if it was an inch, and given my grandmother’s fear of snakes, there was no way she would have let it grow that high if she was at all capable of getting it cut.  So in the blistering early summer heat I forced a protesting push mower through all that hay until I had cleared the front yard and she could walk safely to the mailbox again.

We talked a little bit afterwards, her shading her eyes against the non-existent glare of a darkened room, but I was so exhausted and strung out from breathing pollen dust and smoke from that mower that I literally remember next to nothing about what we talked about.  At some point she apologized for not having baked a pie for me, I told her it was alright, and then it was time for me to hit the road again.  I hugged her goodbye (quite possibly for the first time in my life without resenting it), and that was that.

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