bloodlines

Three days. Somehow it felt like an eternity, those three days of missed phone conversations. I had begun to grow paranoid, imagining that she had decided she wasn’t going to take my calls. I wasn’t worth the trouble . . . a failure. This is where a mind can take one, if irrational emotion overtakes reason. Because what I know to be true is that my grandmother loves me. Unconditionally. And I also know that she takes as much comfort from our daily calls as I do. But still, when I heard the familiar, “Anna!” I could not help but choke back the little catch in my throat accompanied by a stinging in the eyes. “Yeah, GramBea,” I sputtered out with forced cheeriness. “I’ve missed you!” I almost blurted out, “Are you disappointed in me?” but managed to hold back. A bit into the conversation, it was quite clear that she was not. She was in a calm mood, showing grace and wisdom as she asked about my mother, job news, and Peter. 

“Oh,” she interrupted, when I started to talk about the latest homestead project, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how good Peter looks.” She must have noticed the haircut I’d given him right before our visit last weekend, I thought. I began to inwardly take credit for her compliment, until she added, “You can see that he doesn’t get anxious.” I frowned slightly, wondering where she was going with that. “He’s so good for those of us who worry, isn’t he?” Then I laughed, both at the surprise continuation of the thought as well as at the profound truth of her statement.

Yes, GramBea, you’re right. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that my husband is so good for me. Thank you for lumping me with you, reminding me that we are two of a kind, linked by the bloodlines that carry with them all manner of issues and angstinesses—but also a bond of love that leaves us clinging to each other with all our angsty strength. Thank you for jolting me out of my self-centered paranoia . . . and thank you for being my grandma. My GramBea.