This past week some fellow journalers have stirred a bunch of emotions and I haven't been able to shake thoughts of my grandmother (Meme). A strong, independent woman, legally blind for as long as I knew her (but able to see thanks to the marvels of medicine). She was always partying, planning trips with friends, dancing, joking, laughing. One of the funniest stories I remember her telling us was when she met her second husband. They met at a social event, danced for a bit, had some punch, took an evening stroll and sat on a park bench. As they gazed at each other, he said, "You have beautiful eyes." She smiled, tilted her head a bit, put her hand on his and said, "Thank you, they're not mine." They laughed for the rest of their lives. I was surprised when Meme died a few years ago. I just thought she would live forever.
She loved me. She loved my singing. To her, I was a "hot ticket." I moved across country and for a long time I wasn't able to face her, as I was dealing with some truth about her son (my father). I just thought if I was honest with her, it would kill her. She died anyway - without knowing me as an adult. Without knowing my truth. But that's okay. She didn't need to know. She never heard the music I wrote. But I know she hears me now. This is for her.