As I write this, I’m sitting in my aunt’s beautiful and inviting living room. There’s football and jazz on in the background mixing with the sounds of two Italians preparing dinner, and I’m drinking a strong, milky tea. My husband is sitting in the armchair next to me, learning Japanese.
The sun hasn’t shown its face today. There’s been a thick cloud coverage, and it’s been misting on us all day. I went to have my hair cut this afternoon, and the spindly treetops were gray and hazy. Even though it’s misty, it’s been warmer than it has been all week. It’s truly an unreasonably beautiful day.
But the reason I’m here isn’t very beautiful. On Wednesday, my dad got a call saying that my last living grandparent is living the end of her days. He asked if Andrew and I wanted to come out and see her, and we decided to come. I’ve never really known any of my grandparents, but I’m grateful that I can be here for my Aunt and father.
In these past few days, I’ve received so many condolences for my ailing grandma and I try to explain that they don’t need to feel sorry for me. I wasn’t old enough to know my grandparents when they were either alive or themselves before diseases of the brain took them away. If there existed a word for “slightly sad but mostly interesting”, I would say that I feel that for the fact that I won’t be a granddaughter anymore, but I don’t think having that feeling is a thing worth feeling sorry for.
I hope that my grandma gets to experience some beautiful days, even if she doesn’t know who I am, even if she can only see them through her window, even if she doesn’t know why they’re beautiful.
To the furthest star and back,