Part of a series inspired by Ross Gay
that starts here:
Grandma's visits, once or twice a year, meant a trip to the Portland train station--a city we bumpkins rarely traveled to. And once we brought her to our home, the reliable gift of Necco wafers would emerge from her suitcase to be doled out. Which would lead to my older brother and I, heading to the living room to share and compare or to see if he could trick me into trying that 'ugh' flavor once again. Did Grandma understand that her small gift would give her a quiet moment with her middle daughter? I bet she did.
My bedroom was best suited to provide a place for Grandma to sleep, as the other two bedrooms were already sleeping two to a room. She took the twin bed, of course, and I slept on the floor beside the bed. There's one particular night, I can still vaguely recall, when I happened to wake up when Grandma was preparing for bed. I opened my eyes to see a syringe in her hand, injecting insulin into her thigh. My eyes must've popped wide a bit, because she noticed and then quietly and calmly explained in age appropriate words, how this shot helped her.
Did I ever complain about sharing my room? I'm sure I did, I was a child after all. Once we achieve a certain age, we guard whatever we believe to be ours. But once she arrived, that fell to the side. I'd like to think I felt special to have Grandma in my room. In my room, with the playful kitten curtains, that Grandma sent the money for and Mom chose the material and sewed it into a gift. Though she didn't live long enough to meet our daughters, she did get to meet N. However brief, it mattered--to me.
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