I took a few hours this morning to read though my Grandma's collected works of poetry. There was nobody else in the house save for our cat and the dog we're babysitting until tomorrow, so I just sat in the sun room with a pot of tea and dove into her incredible words.
Throughout this emotional handful of hours I kept finding myself looking up from her book, breathing back stray tears, and smiling. It felt like we were having a conversation. She was discussing topics we'd touched on all too rarely--and her words were just...right. She talked of legacies and lives and not-quite-infinites and completely infinites. She said so much in so little and reminded me, reminded me here and now, where I came from.
All too often I find myself getting smug. Afflicted with the disease of modernity, I smirk in the mirror and pat myself on the back for knowing so much. In the same instant, a chill runs down my spine and I have no idea why.
In reality, it's the fear that I've forgotten everything. That the world just appeared earlier today and I have to hit the ground running. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing because the heroes in my childhood stories were blood relatives and the monsters were human-shaped and everyone seems to have forgotten about our beautiful, ragged past. I bet Dorothy wakes up in cold sweats sometimes, scrambling for her ruby slippers.
It's easy to get lonely here with no family nearby and friends that have only known the most recent version of me. It's easy to try to forget where I came from and what I came from. But why? Why should I forget what I've fought for?
Today, I am feeling grounded, and humble, and grateful.
Thanks, Grandma. I love you.
Dakotah
