Dear my father's mother,
I don't even know if I deserve to call myself your granddaughter, because I don't know even know your name. I want to say it's Ruth, but sometimes I think it's Rose. You'd passed before I was born, the victim of some terrible disease, if I remember correctly...I don't know if I get to call myself your granddaughter at all.
But if you'll let me, I think I'd like to.
Daddy used to say you'd like me if you'd ever gotten a chance to know me. I don't know much about you, besides that you were the one who put literature so squarely into his life, causing him to put it so squarely into mine. I thank you for that. A few days ago I thanked Maya for inspiring me; I must thank you for inspiring him. I wonder if you were a writer too. I should ask him. We don't talk about you much.
Maybe this is weird, but sometimes I like to think we're kind of similar. I imagine that you're the one who would make me feel like less of an outsider in this family. I imagine we could have read aloud together over cups of tea. I know you shared my love of butterflies. He used to catch them for me and tell me about you. I also know that you had more patience than me, because a) you were able to live with him for 18 years (I'm only slightly joking), and b) you used to knit. He's jealous of my mom's new boyfriend, and is trying to one-up him by sending me an afghan you knitted before he can get me an NJPD blanket.
He loves you. Probably more than he ever loved any other woman (except maybe me. That makes me feel bad.). I wanted you to know that.
If there's something after this and you're somewhere watching over him, make sure he takes care of himself, okay? He's all of you I've got.
Your granddaughter, if you'll have me,
Maya
No comments:
Post a Comment