Grandma

Today I got to Maya and Dustin's, expecting to meet Maya and Sammie so we could go get coffee. When I walked in, under the homey, cozy glow of an overhead dining room table light, sat my tiny asian grandma.
We sat for little while and shared a pot of coffee. Sammie said to her 'Hey Grandma, is Aunt Suzy still writing a book about your life?' (she's my Grandma's step daughter, her and her husband John are both English teachers and potters that live in Omaha, Nebraska. (dennisonpottery.com) They have a son named Job, who Sammie says is smart and lives in Manhattan. I think he's cool just cause his name is Job.) Grandma said no, and I immediately wanted to fill those shoes. I want to write a book about my Grandma's life. It's funny how you grow up around these people, for most of your life, or at least in my life, they have just been my grandma, or my grandpa, or my cousin. But the older I get the more I focus my lens and see more than just my Grandma, I see all the little details in her face and in her hands, and her age in the way she shuffles. A little old woman, who knows more than I ever will.
I started asking her questions with a paper and pen in hand.
Here is what I learned.
My Grandma, Vistacion Roa was born on June 19th, 1923. She was the last of 14 kids, only 6 of which survived. Their names were (from oldest to youngest) Antonio, Deogracias, Eulalia, Remberto, Filomeno, and the baby, my grandma, Visitacion. They were the children of Petra Recuerdo (spanish for remembrance) and Filomeno Roa. Filomeno saw Petra performing in a theatre, saw her dancing so gracefully that he needed to meet her.
Filomeno's family had a coat of arms in Spain and a family ship in the Galian Trade.
My grandma's mother in law was 1/2 Syrian and her name was Remigia (pronounced Remi-EE-ha) She married Jose Buenconsejo, they had a son Francisco who would later marry Visitacion.
Next we started talking about my Grandma's travels. She has been to most places in this world, so many that it is probably easier for her to name the places she hasn't been. I asked her which was her favorite place. She said Paris, France. A place where the wine was cheaper than water, and 'the buildings were old and ugly on the outside, but inside it was beautiful'. I think perhaps that this is the way my Grandma sees what most people would call ordinary things in her life, and thats why it was so meaningful to her in Paris. She loved that the French had close family ties like filipinos, and loved their dogs as their children. But a warning from my Grandma Vi: 'Hab to be carepul because ob de shit, dog shit ebrywhere!' I covered my mouth and laughed at how cute she was. She spoke of French men carrying home french bread under their armpits without even wrapping it, and a place in the South of France called Monaco where people gambled like it was Las Vegas and how the prince married the american actress Grace Kelly.
Next she talked about teaching in Alberta, Canada for 2 yrs. It was close to an Indian reservation, and she would teach the Indian children. The Indians loved their liquor and broke into your house when they ran out, she said.
After this it was time to go home, and she said to me 'Well, I'll see you later again', I secretly wrote it down just how she said it so that I would never forget it. But I went with Sammie to take her home, held her hand to the car. Somehow, being so close to her now, I missed her. I walked her to her door and went inside for an antique kettle she wanted to give to Maya, and as she rustled around for it, I looked around her home, the place I knew when I was a child. It still smelt of ginger, and being inside I felt like I was anywhere but Fort Wayne, Indiana. My grandmother is the world, and she carries it with her wherever she goes.
Before I left she said 'I love you' and this is the first time I remember her saying it first. She told me about a letter she kept from my mom, where she had ended it saying 'You are very pretty, mother.'
You are very pretty, grandmother.

where is my mind?

You wouldn't believe it, I'm writing this from the house I grew up in. Everything is the same and different. This just kind of...happened. I can't stop looking around. I don't know if I'm looking at something, or looking for something, but all the same, I can't stop looking. Everything in this house is just as my life as always been. A little off, a little crooked. Everything is dusty and misplaced, like it hasn't moved since I left. I find myself wiping the dust, straightening the pictures on the walls, moving a lamp here and then there. And I can't help but think that I'm not fixing the house so much as I am fixing myself. Wiping my tears, straightening my thinking, moving my heart here and then there, trying to turn it on and shine it on the positves of being here. I am trying. I don't want to be the one she knows as wallowing in self pity, because how can you wallow if you yourself created the water hole? I would more readily ask that they cry their tears into this certain place, so that I can contain them, scoop them up in a bucket and taste the salty tears and swallow their pain.
For the first time, in a long time, the only thing I know to do is pray. I spit out the words creating a mist that coats everything it touches with my apologies, and quietly hope that if you can't see it, maybe you can feel it.