Monday, August 1, 2016
An Ode to my Grandmother
The elegant blonde in the picture above is my grandma. (The smirking infant is me.)
A few days ago I downloaded a few Maria Callas songs on Spotify, because, let's face it, if anyone can make opera fun, it's Maria Callas. And as I listened to them, I thought of my grandmother.
My dear old grandmother has beaten genetics (both her parents died when they were 50-something) and life. She was born a working-class girl and once told me as a giggly secret that when she married, she knew that what she wanted to do with Grandpa was eat, travel, and get rich. A Chilean Holly Golightly but without the slut part (not that the slut part is bad.)
I write this ode because as of late her mind has been wandering, and it refuses to wander with us. It breaks my heart, and has my mother all fidgety about her own genetic destiny.
This woman infused into my family love for literature, for music, for beauty, for nature, for enjoying oneself, all in great style and with a brilliant sense of humor. This is an ode to a woman who treated life like a fine delicacy and her loved ones like true works of art.
I love her, and I'm going to make sure that her future years are a constant reminder of it. That will be the greatest ode I can give her.