my grandma and i are so different. sometimes i wonder if it is a fault of my own when i can’t see over or across the age gap. it makes me wonder if i am somehow missing the maturity to accept the wisdom of those who have lived here four times longer than i have. but i always get stuck trying to relate her to me.
but i do love her. very much. i love the way she speaks with a partial lilting accent. i love how much she loves me. i love how much she cares about the strength and bonds of family even if we don’t define family in the same way.
i love how devoutly faithful she is to the lord and christ. i aim to emulate that same type of unwavering faith and hope but have been taught to use broader words and concepts than the one and most popular lord. i find myself drifting in a sea of perspectives, none of which i wish to deem right or wrong. nobody seems to be asking me for my faith anymore, just my critical eye and a deconstructing mind. and yet i have so much in me, waiting for its calling and its cause.
and i love how my grandmother writes letters. not just single-line birthday notes with a few bills folded inside, but real long letters tiny, scrawled letters that i have to squint at hard to discern words. i love how open with her thoughts she is, even if her thoughts aren’t very much like the ones i think. and when i write her back, i wish i could be more like her, and tell her exactly what i think. i wish i would give her that chance to know me, to relate to me, instead of always just acting like the person i think she wants me to be.