My comment to my brother’s blog regarding our great grandmother. I have been trying to think of a way to write about her, the correct story, the best memory. Dean prompts this:
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And round push button light switches that thunked when you pushed them. They were alluring.
I still remember the smell of the place. And the alcove between the living room and the kitchen where the toy chest was kept.
The 20 cats.
The wasp nest under the swing. Was you or I that got stung?
The bees in the fig tree that didn’t mind the boys climbing it.
The fresh figs.
The games of chase under the grape fine.
Choking on a lemon drop and hiding in a bedroom so no one would know.
The ditch and church on the other side.
Most of all, I remember the scratchy voice of that kind woman, her dark rimmed glasses, the wrinked face, the gray hair pulled back in a bun, a skinny frame but still gravity had pulled her mass downward trying to reshape her as a bell, her hands, and her cane.
