Let the discipline begin:
At 92 she's been accused of coloring her hair. She's the only surviving sibling of my Grandmama honey, the last of a breed who calls everyone dahlin and means it. She walks determinedly with a cane, half bent over from almost a century full of life. She holds tight to her history with fierce independence. She intimately knows all her ancestors; the whens and whys of how they all ended up in Tennessee. Her mind is sharper than my own, recalling in detail events, parties, fights and love experienced over so many years. I have driven three hours to sit next to her and absorb the stories about family she loves to share. Painting personalities of long dead great-greats so eloquently and precisely they might as well be in the room.
She told me once when the wind blows as she works in her cottage garden, she knows it's Jesus passing by, reminding her He's taking care things.
I saw her shake her fist emphatically, and ask the sky WHY?! when my grandmother died, tears slipping silently down her beautiful face. I hope the same garden breeze that whispers Holy Presence, gently reminds her that she is an ancestor He's not finished with yet.
|Auntie: taken at Grand'mama's 90th b-day party|