Sunday, October 27, 2013

I went to visit my grandmother's grave on a cold fall crisp day. There was no one left for me to talk to. She always had a way of understanding, of coddling my pain, of making me happy effortlessly. When I was with her I felt the world was safe as she only strived to make me feel loved and devoted herself to serving my family. My Grandfather always used to call her, "Honey," so before long, all of her grandkids would affectionately refer to her as, "Grandma Honey." She was a sweet woman, just the same, so full of grace, so demonstrative of faith. She had an abundance of love and resourcefulness and determination to exhibit life in a way I don't know if I have ever been able to express entirely to another living soul. She was married to my grandfather for 53 years...they were giddy and flirtatious and affectionate and considerate and uplifting and eternally in the kind of love that makes you wish you knew it for your own or could put it in a bottle and sell to drink and taste, just to experience the rich lasting flavor. I stood by her grave all alone as the wind batted at my face and tossed my hair behind me. None of the flowers on any of the graves appeared to be real, they were all silk and collecting dirt and debris from being unattended and neglected for so long. I tried to picture my grandmother's face as I'd seen it in dreams after she'd fine and inviting and full of truthfulness and that knowing grin, confident she always had. I wondered how my grandfather had made it so many nights without the pureness of her gentle love. She was untouched by desires of the world...she never asked for much....she never wanted to travel with my grandfather...she liked to stay at home tending to her garden and cook and sew and read all day. The times she would write, she wrote only love stories about her love for my grandfather, some of which were not truly matured and adequately compelling until she was composing them at his hospital bed when he was 79 years old and in the midst of open heart surgery. She jotted down every recollection she had of their life together, as well as kept track of his condition and progress as they slowly upgraded his condition and stabilized him. I've never seen a more loyal human being. They were never harsh on each other...I never heard or saw them ever speak an unkind word to one another...I don't think an unkind word ever went out of my grandmother's mouth and my grandfather has gotten onto me several times for using foul language just for saying "hell." He would edit my poems for me and change any curse words to "heck" or "shoot" or "dang it." I don't feel like writing anymore...I don't feel like living anymore...I just want to go home and be done here and be back with my grandmother. I'm tired of people who don't know me prying into my life and attacking me and putting words in my mouth and trying to pass the love and poetry in my heart off as their own. I don't know how the person who sees my dreams could ever stay with a terrible excuse for a human being like that after he wakes up from our love... I do not know anymore, I don't want to stick around to wonder any longer.... I am tired, I am fed up, I am done being patient with it. There is a difference between being a healthy person who writes and creates your own work and then being a very sick person who tries to pass other people's love poems off as their own just to keep their broken joke of a loveless marriage going and some people do not know the difference.

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