Sweet Potato Haircut

My grandma journeys through the treasures of her mind for the words that might match the colorful sensations behind her eyes, the mysterious ghosts of times past and elusive letters dancing splendidly, bits of fog and bits of brightness. Whatever finds its way to her mouth and out into the atmosphere, or doesn’t, is fine, and perfectly acceptable, as we are only soft animals tasked to be and breathe and maybe revel in our mysterious aliveness, all of which my grandma does with grace and thoughtfulness and love. My grandma, who invited me to wander the wondrous world of the art museum when I was small and hungry for the world, she turned me lovingly loose to the halls of hallowed creativity from throughout the centuries. My grandma who made dolls with me, letting me choose fabrics for outfits and her elegant and long hands spinning magic with her sewing machine, my young eyes mesmerized at her powers. She is the opener of doors, with the gentle suggestion that there is more to be seen here, more to be done, more to explore.

She is the springtime, freshly awake and sweet smelling and radiating warm light on a cold morning, she wakes with the sun and has always been my morning companion. Before the footsteps and the waking rufflings of our family filled the morning, I would creep up the basement stairs and see her in the kitchen, where I always could find her, drinking her dark coffee and peering through her early morning glasses at a book or her iPad, looking up at the sounds of me and smiling gently at the sights of me, inviting me to sit with her and asking if I’d like some tea. My grandma the giver. The ever patient listener, the woman with whom my secrets have always been safest and my confidence has always been kept, my grandma the sharer of love. I imagine that our two souls recognize each other from inside each of us, my grandma and me, like they have been friends for a long while, like they will always recognize each other despite the changing bodies and beings they might inhabit. My grandma has always, always been my dearest friend. And we talk often about how lucky is this? That we might be such jolly companions and share bloodlines and journey through this life together, the happenstance that we might be paired together, grandmother and granddaughter, with a predestined closeness. The wonder of the universe abounds. 

And I hope my grandma is not afraid for the future, for the Great Beyond that will hold us all together soon enough, because she must know that I am with her, the essence of me, the spirit inside, will always recognize her and belong with her. That there are no distances or deaths or forgettings that could separate our souls. That maybe our souls know, have known all along, where they are going, what is going to happen after the sentence of life has ceased, that they will guide us where we must go, just as the hummingbirds and the monarchs know to fly to Mexico, where they have never been, when they have never done it before. The deepest parts of us just know. And this, indeed, is a thought that relieves me. Maybe it means that we can trust, grandma. That we can trust the mystery of existence to carry us through, to keep us together, to shepherd us home.