the way their
hurts when they speak.
I’ve hit a wall in this exploration of family. I think it comes from the fact of my youth. So many of their memories I can’t remember, which makes me feel like I am not deserving of their story.
I am leaning on my grandmother, likely more than she knows. I am relying on her to share the moments of their lives with me, so that, maybe, I can find some understanding.
Tonight, on the phone for well over an hour, she tells me things. How she mushes her bananas with her oatmeal. How the macaroni that I made her got too hard. How the tuna salad that I brought her from the deli wasn’t anywhere as good as the tuna that I made her—a mistake that I will not repeat. How somebody keeps coming by to…
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