The Wild Heart of Life

Some people,
can hear
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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