This is my darling.
Ninety-five. That's almost a century of wandering this earth and gathering the dust and wonders it affords. I hope and pray that I can be healthy and happy for some 95 years. I'm aiming for 123 but the key words in this paragraph are HEALTHY and HAPPY.
My grandmother, Mawmaw, has dementia. It's a terrible, rotten thing to happen to a woman who has always been a pillar of wit, strength, grace, and beauty. Mawmaw is a writer, a poet, and I blame her for my needing to pick up pens and clack away on keyboards. Story oozed out of her. She would tell us tales of what it was like growing up in the backwoods of middle Georgia. I ate them with a spoon, sopped them up with a child's memory and, thank GOD, can still recall most of them.
Like the time her younger sister was born and her older siblings took her to play by the creek while the doctor came to "bring her a baby sister". Or when her and my Aunt Mary were asleep in their old, wood-framed house and something sifted through the window, materialized at the foot of the bed and caused my Aunt to cry out for their Mother. Mawmaw believes it was an angel. Who am I to disagree?
Mawmaw has faith like a mountain. No mustard seeds for her. She was coordinated and classy, always wearing heels until after her 4th back surgery. When she had to start wearing a back brace, Mawmaw cut blocks of fabric from her inexhaustible stash of quilting supplies to coordinate the front panel of the brace with her outfit. She's still just as beautiful to me now as she was then. Maybe even more. She's a testimony to life and family.
God, I hope I can be even half the woman she is.