:::by lindsey:::

When my grandmother died I had the taste of guilt in my mouth thick and heavy like syrup. The reasons why are not important; the fact is simply that I couldn�t even bring myself to visit her grave. I couldn�t see writing in stone, cold in its cadence and sinister in cursive. I couldn�t see the line of family and accept the loss of history. There was just too much there that I didn�t want. This went on for years. Then my father, himself seeking history lost, gave me a box of my grandmother�s pictures, love letters and cards. The first thing I picked up was a drawing and poem I had written for her when I was maybe six or seven, and I thought then that I would ignore the box, I would not look through it. It would be, I felt, too much. But the second thing was a picture of her, plain and serious, looking into the camera, hands on her hips. The look she would have given me right then, the look that comes from a lady with hard hands that goes to a lady acting like a child, afraid of the dead. So I chose to grow up, to go through the box, to let my roots seek ground and wiggle down in the woman she was, to go to the grave and say to the stone, I,m sorry. I have always believed in God, but before that moment it was more of a fundamental lesson that had just carried over from Sunday school. At that little moment in my little life I felt her and Him in the breeze, together and real and tangible in some unexplainable way, and I spit out my heavy mouth of guilt and gave her flowers.

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